alf or nothing. He pow-wowed a bit, but
at last he gave in. Funny thing about it was he wouldn't hear of keeping
an eye open on the day we brought the job off. Said I must get a pal.
Yet here he turns up as large as life all the time."

The prisoner had hit on a point which had puzzled Foyle for a time, but
light had already flashed upon him. In the ordinary course of things, a
robbery at Grosvenor Gardens by two known criminal characters would not
of necessity be associated with the murder. The third man was taking no
chances of being identified as an associate.

"Anyway, I took the job on, and he handed me over the twirls and a
lay-out of the house. He didn't tell me who was behind him. And I didn't
ask too many questions. He called himself Mr. Smith, and we met once or
twice at the ----" He named a public-house in Leman Street, Whitechapel.
"That's where I was to have met him to-night with the stuff. Now you
know all I know."

"Not quite," said Foyle quietly. "What's the address of this
gambling-joint where you first met him?"

Ike shook his head. "Oh, play the game, guv'nor. You aren't going to
have that raided after what I've done for you?"

"We'll see," evaded Foyle. "Where is it?"

Reluctantly, Ike gave the address. Green held out a pen to him and
pointed to the bottom of the foolscap.

"Read that through and sign it if it's all right."

The man appended a dashing signature, and with a cheerful "Good night,
Mr. Foyle," was ushered by a chief detective-inspector down to the
charge-room. Heldon Foyle rested his elbows on the table and remained in
deep thought, immobile as a statue. He roused himself with a start as
Green returned.

"Both charged," said the other laconically. "The other chap refuses to
give any account of himself. Refuses even to give a name. Seems to be a
Yankee. I had his finger-prints taken. There was nothing on him to
identify him."

"Yankee, eh?" repeated Foyle. "So is Grell. There won't be any one in
the finger-print department at this time of night. We'll go along and
have a search by ourselves, I think. If we've not got him there,
Pinkerton of the U. S. National Detective Agency is staying at the
Cecil. We'll get him to have a look over our man and say whether he
recognises him."

"Very good, sir. There's one other thing. When I searched this man I
found this. I don't know if you can make anything out of it. I can't."

He handed across an envelope already torn open, addressed