er the event--well, he could look after himself.

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head doubtfully. "It isn't like a
lonely suburban street."

Ike grinned.

"I'm not a mug, am I? What do you say to walking in the front door,
opening it with a key, and with the keys of the rest of the house in my
'sky'? All I want is a straight man to keep doggo."

"Criminy! Have you got the twirls?" he gasped. "Where did you get 'em?"

"Never mind where they came from. I've got 'em. That's enough. More than
that, I've got a lay-out of the house all marked out on paper, with
every bit of stuff marked out where it ought to be. It's as easy as
falling off a log."

"Am I in it?" demanded Freddy.

"Why should I be telling you if you wasn't? You keep doggo outside if
you like."

More drinks were ordered, and Freddy came to business.

"What do I get?"

Ike let his chin rest meditatively on his slim fingers.

"Let's see. I cut in for a third, and I shall do all the work. I'll give
you a quarter of that third. You won't have anything to do, except give
me the office if anything goes wrong."

"'Struth!" Freddy was more hurt than indignant. "You aren't going to Jew
me down like that. Who else is in it?"

"Never mind who else is in it. I give you first chance, as a pal. You
can take it or leave it."

"Right, I'm on," agreed Freddy.

CHAPTER XXV

The compact between Heldon Foyle and Sir Ralph Fairfield had begun to
bear fruit. For three days an advertisement had appeared in the personal
column of the _Daily Wire_--

"Will R. G. communicate with R. F. Very anxious."

Much thought had gone to the wording of the line. If Grell or any of his
companions noticed it, Foyle felt certain that in some way or other an
attempt would be made to get in touch with the baronet. He was fairly
confident that the missing man needed money. He would probably not
question how Fairfield knew that he was alive. If he rose to the bait
there would be a catch of some sort. Whether Grell was the murderer or
not, he held the key to the heart of the mystery. The superintendent
emphasised this in a talk with Fairfield.

"It's a fair ruse. We're pretty certain he's hiding somewhere in London,
and it's a big field unless we've got a starting-point. That's our
trouble--finding a starting-point. In detective stories the hero always
hits on it unerringly at once. There was one yarn in which the scratches
on the back of a watch gave the clue to