remendous punch in the
solar plexus, while his fellow "stall" was explaining to a constable
that it was all an accident, and Freddy had quietly melted away in the
direction of the Tube station.

The pickpocket never strained his luck, wherein he differed from the
lower grade professors of his art. Common sense and superstition were
both factors in his decision to suspend operations. He might as well
spend his time, he decided, in trying to carry out Foyle's instructions.
His intention took him to three public-houses as far apart as Islington,
Blackfriars, and Whitechapel; at the latter place, in an ornate saloon
bristling with gilt and glittering with mirrors, he found the man he
wanted.

Leaning across the bar, exchanging sallies with a giggling barmaid, was
a lean, sallow-complexioned man, whose rusty, reddish brown hair was
sufficient justification for his nickname.

"Hello, Ike," said the newcomer, adjusting himself to a high stool.
"How's things?"

"Hello, Dutch. Thought you got stuck the other side of the town. What
are you going to have?"

Over the drinks they talked for a little on a variety of subjects--the
weather, politics, trade--while the barmaid remained within hearing.
Both were craftsmen in their particular line, and they spoke as equal to
equal. Ike had made a specialty of getting cheque signatures for a
little clique of clever forgers, and had his own ways of getting rid of
his confederates' ingenuity. Nor was he above working side-lines if they
promised profit, and in that respect, at least, he resembled Dutch Fred.
His abilities in many directions had been recognised by Harry
Goldenburg. It was not till they had gone over to a little table in a
remote corner that Dutch Fred broached Goldenburg's name, in a tentative
reference to the murder in Grosvenor Gardens.

"Funny thing you should speak about that," commented Ike, glancing
casually about to make certain that no one was within earshot. "I hear
that there's piles of stuff in that house, and there's only a butler and
a man named Lomont, who was Grell's secretary, living there now to look
after things. It would be easy to do a bust there."

Fred's pulses jumped a little faster as he toyed with his glass. He knew
something of Red Ike's methods, and felt certain that some proposal was
coming. He could see the gratitude of Foyle taking some tangible form if
he were able to bring this off. He had no scruples. Even if Ike
suspected treachery aft