while. You can come to me if you're hard up. Have a shot at ---- and
---- and ----" He named several public-houses which are known rendezvous
for crooks of all classes. "You see what you can pick up. And if ever
you're in trouble, you'll know the wife and kid will be looked after."

Freddy grinned cynically to hide a real appreciation. He knew that Foyle
would do as he said. And in the criminal profession, however big the
makings, there is very rarely anything like thrift. For a man who at any
time might find himself doing five years, it was something to know that
those left outside were in no danger of the workhouse. For even "crooks"
have human instincts at times.

"That's all right, Mr. Foyle," said Freddy. "What you say goes. Who'll I
ask for if you're not at your office?"

"You can talk to Mr. Green."

"Right oh."

Freddy swung out into the dusk, whistling, for he had an assignment with
his "stalls" outside one of the big theatres. Foyle waited a few moments
to let him get clear, and himself stepped into the street.

To the surprise and disgust of the rest of the "mob," Freddy early
relinquished the evening's expedition, although his deft fingers had
captured no more than a silver watch (hung deceptively on a gold chain,
which he had left hanging), a woman's purse containing fifteen shillings
in silver, and a pocket-book inside which were half-a-dozen letters. It
was a poor hand, and Micky O'Brady, who was one of the "stalls," frankly
expressed his disgust.

"What's the use of chucking it at this time o' night? It ain't nine
o'clock yet. There's the lifts at the Tube that we haven't worked for
weeks. 'Struth; what did you want to fetch us out for at all? The stuff
you've got won't buy drinks."

Freddy's lower jaw jutted out dangerously. He was a small man, but he
had a hair-trigger temper. He always made a point to be unquestioned
boss of his gang. Discipline had to be maintained at all costs.

"See here, Micky," he said tensely. "I've had enough to-night, and I'm
going to give it a rest. So you'd better shut your face. I'm the man
who's got the say, so here. You just bite on that."

Micky, an Irish Cockney who had never been nearer Ireland than a
professional visit to the Isle of Man, clenched his fists with an oath.
He was a recent ally, and had not fully learned his position in Freddy's
scheme of things. In just two minutes, he was sitting gasping on the
pavement, trying to regain his wits after a t