“Funny, isn’t it,” said Gunn, as the two disappeared and Inspector Whiteleaf re-entered, “that a man should be so upset about the disappearance of a woman he was going to divorce?” “Damn funny!” said Whiteleaf, whose temper was badly frayed by contact with Kerry. “I should have a good laugh if I were you.” He crossed the room, going in to where the surgeon was examining the victim of this mysterious crime. Gunn stared after him dismally. “A person doesn’t get much sympathy from the police, Brisley,” he declared. “That one’s almost as bad as _him_,” jerking his thumb in the direction of the landing. Brisley smiled in a somewhat sickly manner. “Red Kerry is a holy terror,” he agreed, _sotto voce_, glancing aside to where Coombes was checking his notes. “Look out! Here he comes.” “Now,” cried Kerry, swinging into the room, “what’s the game? Plotting to defeat the ends of justice?” He stood with hands thrust in reefer pockets, feet wide apart, glancing fiercely from Brisley to Gunn, and from Gunn back again to Brisley. Neither of the representatives of Spinker’s Agency ventured any remark, and: “How long have you been watching Mrs. Monte Irvin?” demanded Kerry. “Nearly a fortnight,” replied Brisley. “Got your evidence in writing?” “Yes.” “Up to tonight?” “Yes.” “Dictate to Sergeant Coombes.” He turned on his heel and crossed to the divan upon which his oilskin overall was lying. Rapidly he removed his reefer and his waistcoat, folded them, and placed them neatly beside his overall. He retained his bowler at its jaunty angle. A cud of presumably flavorless chewing-gum he deposited in a brass bowl, and from a little packet which he had taken out of his jacket pocket he drew a fresh piece, redolent of mint. This he put into his mouth, and returned the packet to its resting-place. A slim, trim figure, he stood looking round him reflectively. “Now,” he muttered, “what about it?” CHAPTER VIII. KERRY CONSULTS THE ORACLE The clock of Brixton Town Hall was striking the hour of 1 a.m. as Chief Inspector Kerry inserted his key in the lock of the door of his house in Spenser Road. A light was burning in the hallway, and from the little dining-room on the left the reflection of a cheerful fire danced upon the white paint of the half-open door. Kerry deposited his hat, cane, and overall upon the rack, and moving very quietly entered the room and turned on the light. A modestly furnished and scrupulously neat apartment was revealed. On the sheepskin rug before the fire a Manx cat was dozing beside a pair of carpet slippers. On the table some kind of cold repast was laid, the viands concealed under china covers. At a large bottle of Guinness’s Extra Stout Kerry looked with particular appreciation.