London's peculiar climate fought against him,
but he determined to make no more telephone calls but to proceed
to Limehouse police station.
He stepped swiftly into the bar, and, as he had anticipated,
nearly upset the proprietor, who was standing listening by the
half-open door. Kerry smiled fiercely into the ugly face, lifted
the flap, and walked down the room, through the aisle between the
scattered tables, where the air was heavy with strange perfumes,
touched now with the bite of London fog, and where slanting eyes
and straight eyes, sober eyes and drunken eyes, regarded him
furtively. Something of a second hush there was, but one not so
complete as the first.
Kerry pulled the curtain aside, mounted the stair, walked along
the passage and out through the swing door into the yellow gloom
of the Causeway. Ten slow steps he had taken when he detected a
sound of pursuit. Like a flash he turned, clenching his fists.
Then:
"Inspector!" whispered a husky voice.
"Yes! Who are you? What do you want?"
A dim form loomed up through the fog.
"My name is Peters, sir. Inspector Preston knows me."
Kerry had paused immediately under a street lamp, and now he
looked into the pinched, lean face of the speaker, and:
"I've heard of you," he snapped.
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