It was less than an hour when the chief inspector returned, portentously grave.
"Well?" demanded Foyle.
"The real goods," said Green, who was obviously feeling pleased with himself. "Your long shot has come off. They're falling short of money, for they've put Red Ike up to break into Grell's house and steal all the stuff in sight. Ike has asked Fred to give him a hand."
A low whistle came from Foyle's lips. Why hadn't he thought of this? Discreetly done, with the help of a confederate—and apparently Grell had no lack of confederates—it would get over the money difficulty quite simply.
"Sit down, Green. Let's hear all about it," he said, diving into his pocket for the inevitable cigar.
"It's all fixed up. Ike walks into the place with Grell's keys at eight o'clock to-night, while Freddy keeps watch outside——"
"And some one keeps an eye on Freddy, if I'm any judge. Go on. Who put Ike up to it?"
"He won't say. He's as tight as a drum about all that, according to Freddy. When we arrest him we must get something out of him."
"I don't know," said Foyle slowly. "Ike's a queer bird. Dutch Fred will need to look after himself if ever he knows who gave the game away. Well now, let's fix up things. Is any one keeping an eye on the place for Ike?"