But, next to this truculence, which was the first and most alarming trait to intrude itself upon the observer’s attention, the outstanding characteristic of Chief Inspector Kerry was his compact neatness. Of no more than medium height but with shoulders like an acrobat, he had slim, straight legs and the feet of a dancing master. His attire, from the square-pointed collar down to the neat black brogues, was spotless. His reefer jacket fitted him faultlessly, but his trousers were cut so unfashionably narrow that the protuberant thigh muscles and the line of a highly developed calf could quite easily be discerned. The hand twirling the cane was small but also muscular, freckled and covered with light down. Red Kerry was built on the lines of a whippet, but carried the equipment of an Irish terrier. The telephone bell rang. Inspector Kerry moved his square shoulders in a manner oddly suggestive of a wrestler, laid the malacca cane on the mantleshelf, and crossed to the table. Taking up the telephone: “Yes?” he said, and his voice was high-pitched and imperious. He listened for a moment. “Very good, sir.” He replaced the receiver, took up a wet oilskin overall from the back of a chair and the cane from the mantleshelf. Then rolling chewing-gum from one corner of his mouth into the other, he snapped off the electric light and walked from the room. Along the corridor he went with a lithe, silent step, moving from the hips and swinging his shoulders. Before a door marked “Private” he paused. From his waistcoat pocket he took a little silver convex mirror and surveyed himself critically therein. He adjusted his neat tie, replaced the mirror, knocked at the door and entered the room of the Assistant Commissioner. This important official was a man constructed on huge principles, a man of military bearing, having tired eyes and a bewildered manner. He conveyed the impression that the collection of documents, books, telephones, and other paraphernalia bestrewing his table had reduced him to a state of stupor. He looked up wearily and met the fierce gaze of the chief inspector with a glance almost apologetic. “Ah, Chief Inspector Kerry?” he said, with vague surprise. “Yes. I told you to come. Really, I ought to have been at home hours ago. It’s most unfortunate. I have to do the work of three men. This _is_ your department, is it not, Chief Inspector?” He handed Kerry a slip of paper, at which the Chief Inspector stared fiercely. “Murder!” rapped Kerry. “Sir Lucien Pyne. Yes, sir, I am still on duty.” His speech, in moments of interest, must have suggested to one overhearing him from an adjoining room, for instance, the operation of a telegraphic instrument. He gave to every syllable the value of a rap and certain words he terminated with an audible snap of his teeth.