might have appeared to some, that of a dancing-master about to
demonstrate a new step.

His close-cropped hair was brilliantly red, and so was his short,
wiry, aggressive moustache. He was ruddy of complexion, and he
looked out unblinkingly upon the world with a pair of steel-blue
eyes. Neat he was to spruceness, and while of no more than
medium height he had the shoulders of an acrobat.

The detective who stood beside him, by name John Durham, had one
trait in common with his celebrated superior. This was a quick
keenness, a sort of alert vitality, which showed in his eyes, and
indeed in every line of his thin, clean-shaven face. Kerry had
picked him out as the most promising junior in his department.

"Give me the particulars," said the Chief Inspector. "It isn't
robbery. He's wearing a diamond ring worth two hundred pounds."

His diction was rapid and terse--so rapid as to create the
impression that he bit off the ends of the longer words. He
turned his fierce blue eyes upon the uniformed officer who stood
at the end of the slab.

"They are very few, Chief Inspector," was the reply. "He was
hauled out by the river police shortly after midnight, at the
lower end of Limehouse Reach. He was alive then--they heard his
cry--but he died while they were hauling him into the boat."

"Any statement?" rapped Kerry.