urer, with corduroys tied about the
knees, lurched unsteadily out of the Lost Property Office and passed
into Whitehall. Rough, tousled hair, an unkempt moustache, and a day's
growth of beard on the chin were details warranted to stand inspection.
Heldon Foyle rarely used a disguise, but when he did he was careful that
nothing should get out of order. Hair and moustache were his own, dyed
and brushed cunningly. Yet, when he reeled against Green near the
Albany, the inspector, who was an observant man, pushed him roughly
aside with an anathema on his clumsiness.

"Didn't 'urt you, did it?" stormed the labourer aggressively. "'Course I
look where I'm going." Then in a lower tone: "I'm Foyle. I got your
telephone message. Anything moving now?"

"If you don't go away I shall call a constable." Green had been quick to
see his cue and spoke loudly. He went on rapidly. "He hasn't stirred
out. A post-office messenger has just gone in with a letter for him. I
said I was expecting one, and got a glimpse at it."

"All right, old pal. Don't get excited. You go home and tell the missus
all about it," retorted the labourer.

Green walked rapidly away, spoke a few words to a man who was standing
on the other side of the road, deeply interested in a bookseller's
window, and departed.

The superintendent felt in his pockets and produced a couple of boxes of
matches. A constable strolled up, dignified and stern. A swift word in
an undertone sent him away with burning cheeks.

In half an hour Foyle had sold a box of matches, for which he received
sixpence with profuse thanks and inward disgust. If he sold his second
box and still hung about, his loitering without excuse might attract
undesirable attention. The contingency, however, did not arise, for a
minute or two later Fairfield himself strolled into the street. Foyle
rushed to open the door of a taxicab, which he hailed, but another tout
was before him. Nevertheless, he heard the address.

"Grave Street, Whitechapel," he murmured to himself, as the cab slipped
away. "Ivan has got to work."

A short argument with a second cab-driver, who distrusted his
appearance, was cut short by a deposit of five shillings as a guarantee
of good faith, and the superintendent also began the journey. Behind him
a third cab carried the man who had been so deeply interested in the
bookseller's window.

CHAPTER XIII

Grave Street, Whitechapel, is not a savoury neighbourhood. One may pa