ot an
uncommon episode in Grave Street, they knew that the woman who had been
chastised would probably have been the first to turn on them.

There was a side entrance to 404A, which was the newspaper shop that
Foyle had cause to remember. He struck the grimy panel sharply with his
fist and waited. There was no reply. Again he knocked, and Green,
unbuttoning his greatcoat, flung it off and laid it across his arm. He
could drop it easily in case of an emergency. Still there was no answer
to the knock.

"Luckily I swore out a search warrant," muttered Foyle, and searched in
his own pockets for something. It was a jemmy of finely tempered steel
gracefully curved at one end. He inserted it in a crevice of the door
and, leaning his weight upon it, obtained an irresistible leverage.
There was a slight crack, and it swung inwards as the screws of the hasp
drew. The two men stepped within and, closing the door, stood absolutely
still for a matter of ten minutes. Not a sound betrayed that their
burglarious entry had alarmed any one.

Presently Green made a movement, and a vivid shaft of light from a
pocket electric lamp played along the narrow uncarpeted passage. The
superintendent gripped his jemmy tightly and turned towards the dirty
stairs. Then the light vanished as quickly as it had flared up, and from
above there came a sound of shuffling footsteps. Even Heldon Foyle, whom
no one would have accused of nervousness, felt his heart beat a trifle
more quickly. He knew that if he were as near the heart of the mystery
as he believed any second might see shooting. Penned as he and his
companion were in the narrow space of the passage barely three feet
wide, a shot fired from above could scarcely miss.

Crouching low, he sprang up the narrow staircase in three bounds, making
scarcely a sound. On the landing above he wound his arms tightly about
the person whose movements he had heard and whispered a quick, tense
command.

"Not a word, or it will be the worse for you. Let's have a light,
Green."

The prisoner kept very still, and Green flashed a light on his face. It
was that of a man of forty or so, with pronounced Hebrew features. His
greasy black hair was tangled in coarse curls, and a smooth black
moustache ran across his upper lip. A pair of shifty eyes were fixed
fearfully on Foyle, and the man murmured something in a guttural tongue.

"We are police officers. How many people are there in this house?"
demanded Foyle s