“Ah,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner. “Yes. Divisional Inspector—Somebody (I cannot read the name) has detained all the parties. But you had better report at Vine Street. It appears to be a big case.” He sighed wearily. “Very good, sir. With your permission I will glance at Sir Lucien’s pedigree.” “Certainly—certainly,” said the Assistant Commissioner, waving one large hand in the direction of a bookshelf. Kerry crossed the room, laid his oilskin and cane upon a chair, and from the shelf where it reposed took a squat volume. The Assistant Commissioner, hand pressed to brow, began to study a document which lay before him. “Here we are,” said Kerry, _sotto voce_. “Pyne, Sir Lucien St. Aubyn, fourth baronet, son of General Sir Christian Pyne, K.C.B. H’m! Born Malta.... Oriel College; first in classics.... H’m. Blue.... India, Burma.... Contested Wigan.... attached British Legation. ... H’m!...” He returned the book to its place, took up his overall and cane, and: “Very good, sir,” he said. “I will proceed to Vine Street.” “Certainly—certainly,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner, glancing up absently. “Good night.” “Good night, sir.” “Oh, Chief Inspector!” Kerry turned, his hand on the door-knob. “Sir?” “I—er—what was I going to say? Oh, yes! The social importance of the murdered man raises the case from the—er—you follow me? Public interest will become acute, no doubt. I have therefore selected you for your well known discretion. I met Sir Lucien once. Very sad. Good night.” “Good night, sir.” Kerry passed out into the corridor, closing the door quietly. The Assistant Commissioner was a man for whom he entertained the highest respect. Despite the bewildered air and wandering manner, he knew this big, tired-looking soldier for an administrator of infinite capacity and inexhaustive energy. Proceeding to a room further along the corridor, Chief Inspector Kerry opened the door and looked in. “Detective-Sergeant Coombes.” he snapped, and rolled chewing-gum from side to side of his mouth. Detective-Sergeant Coombes, a plump, short man having lank black hair and a smile of sly contentment perpetually adorning his round face, rose hurriedly from the chair upon which he had been seated. Another man who was in the room rose also, as if galvanized by the glare of the fierce blue eyes. “I’m going to Vine Street,” said Kerry succinctly; “you’re coming with me,” turned, and went on his way. Two taxicabs were standing in the yard, and into the first of these Inspector Kerry stepped, followed by Coombes, the latter breathing heavily and carrying his hat in his hand, since he had not yet found time to put it on. “Vine Street,” shouted Kerry. “Brisk.” He leaned back in the cab, chewing industriously. Coombes, having somewhat recovered his breath, essayed speech. “Is it something big?” he asked. “Sure,” snapped Kerry. “Do they send _me_ to stop dog-fights?”