"You can make that defence if you like—if you think it will be believed," retorted Foyle. "It will be better for every one if you tell the truth, though."
The man lapsed into a surly, sullen silence, and the superintendent could feel that he was glaring at him in the darkness of the closed car. The other detective looked through the window.
"Here comes Mr. Green, sir."
Arm in arm and in amicable converse with Ike, the chief detective-inspector was approaching the car, with the chauffeur on the other side. Ike, it appeared, had been run to earth in the dining-room, and had surrendered at discretion. He had all the philosophy of the habitual thief who knows when the game is up. He grinned a little when he saw the handcuffed policeman in the car.
"Why, it's you, Mr. Smith! Didn't you think I could be trusted for fair does over the stuff inside?
You've fallen into it this time, and no blooming error. Where's Fred?"
"Fred who?" queried Foyle. "Is there some one else in this job?"
But Red Ike was too old a bird to be deceived. Instinct, as well as reason, told him that he had been betrayed, and the absence of Fred but lent fuel to his suspicions.
"Aw—don't come it, Mr. Foyle," he said disgustedly, and added a picturesque flow of language, elaborating the steps he would take to get even with Dutch Fred when he had the opportunity. Not one of the detectives interrupted him. The more he talked the better, for he might drop something of value. Not until they drew up at the police station did his eloquence desert him. The superintendent descended first and gave a few instructions, while the soi-disant constable was taken to the cells. Ike found himself escorted upstairs into the C.I.D. office. Only Heldon Foyle and Green remained with him.
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable," said the superintendent cheerfully. "We want to have a little talk with you, Ike. Would you like a drink? Here, have a cigar."