"My daughter? She thought you were burglars. She didn't know."
"Where is she?"
Without waiting for a reply he entered the room whence she had emerged and, striking another match, applied it to a gas-bracket. A fat woman was sitting up in bed looking at him timorously. He paid no heed to her, but stooped to look under the bed. When he straightened himself Green had rejoined him.
"The girl gave us away," exclaimed Foyle. "Here, you, where is she gone?" He shook the woman roughly by the shoulder. "Go to the bottom of the stairs, Green, and see that no one slips in or out. Take that chap outside down with you."
"My daughter?" exclaimed the woman helplessly. "She has gone to stay with her aunt. We are respectable people. You frightened her. We don't like the police coming here."
"Highly respectable," repeated Foyle under his breath. Aloud he said menacingly, "We shall soon know whether you are respectable. Where does the girl's aunt live?"
"Twenty-two Shadwell Lane," was the reply, glib and prompt.
Foyle looked for an instant penetratingly at her. Her eyes dropped. His hand went to his pocket and he calmly lighted a cigar. Then he went downstairs to where Green was on guard and politely apologised to Israels. Casually he repeated the question he had put to the woman. Yes, the Jew had seen his daughter go out. She said she was going to her aunt. Her aunt lived at 48 Sussex Street.
"I see," said the superintendent quietly. "The fact is, of course, that she is not your daughter, and that she has not gone to her aunt's. You are in an awkward corner, my man," he went on, changing his tone and moving a step nearer. "Better tell us the truth. Your wife has let me know something."