"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."