ternly, in a low voice. "You may as well answer in
English. Quietly, now."

He had released his hold round the Jew's waist, but stood with the jemmy
dangling by his side and with ears cocked ready for any sound. Green had
climbed the stairs and stood by his side.

Domiciliary visits are unfrequent in England, but the Jew was not
certain enough to stand upon a legal technicality. As a matter of fact,
the search warrant would have met the difficulty. He cringed before the
two men, whose faces he could not see, for Green had thrown his wedge of
light so that it showed up the man's sallow face and left all else in
darkness.

"I do not know why you have come," he answered, forming each word
precisely. "I have done nothing wrong. I am an honest newsagent. There
is only my wife, daughter, son, lodger in house."

"You are a receiver of stolen goods," answered Foyle, something, it must
be confessed, at a venture. "Don't trouble to deny it, Mr. Israels.
We're not after you this time--not if you treat us fairly. What about
this lodger of yours? Have you bought him a typewriter lately?"

"Yes--yes. I help you all I can," protested the Jew, with an eagerness
that deceived neither of the detectives. There is no class of liar so
abysmal as the East-end criminal Jew. They will hold to a glib falsehood
with a temerity that nothing can shake. If there is no necessity to lie,
they lie--for practice, it is to be presumed. The best way to extract a
truth is to make a direct assertion by the light of apparent knowledge
and so sometimes obtain assent. Foyle knew the idiosyncrasies of the
breed. Hence the threat in his demand.

"I bought a typewriter--yes," went on Israels. "I think he was honest.
Didn't seem as though police after him."

"Which room is he in?"

Israels jerked a thumb upwards. "Next landing. Door on left," he
ejaculated nervously.

The superintendent pushed by the man. He knew that the critical moment
had come. With his quick judgment of men he had summed up Mr. Israels.
Whatever the Jew's morals, it was evident that he had a wholesome
respect for his own oily skin. He would not risk himself to save the
neck of another man. Foyle's intentions were simple. He would steal
quietly up the second flight of stairs, burst the door open if it were
locked, and seize the man he was in search of in his sleep. But his
plans were frustrated.

He had not taken two steps when a woman peeped from an adjoining room.
He caught one