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?"

Knowing the man and recognizing the mood, Coombes became silent, and
this silence he did not break all the way to Vine Street. At the