and Chief Inspector Green paced to and fro along
Westminster Pier watching a couple of motor-boats as they swung across
the eddies to meet them. A bitter wind had chopped the incoming tide
into a quite respectable imitation of a rough sea. There were three men
in each boat. Wrington at the tiller in one, Jones, his lieutenant,
steering the other.

"It's going to be a cold job," commented Foyle, as he turned up his coat
collar and stamped heavily on the frosty boards.

"Ay," agreed Green. Then, without moving his head: "There's that chap
Jerrold of the _Wire_ behind us. Has he got any idea of what we're on?"

Foyle wheeled sharply, and confronted a thin-faced, sallow-complexioned
man with a wisp of black hair creeping from under his hat, and with
sharp, penetrating, humorous eyes. Jerrold was one of the most
resourceful of the "crime investigators" of Fleet Street, and, while he
had often helped the police, he could be a dangerous ally at times. He
started with well-affected surprise as Foyle greeted him.

"Well, I never! How are you, Mr. Foyle? And you, Mr. Green? What are you
doing down here?"

"For the matter of that, what are you doing?" asked the superintendent,
who had made a shrewd guess that he and his companion had been seen from
the Embankment, and that Jerrold, scenting something afoot, had
descended to wait an opportunity. But Jerrold was ready.

"Me?" he retorted. "Oh, I'm writing a story about Westminster Bridge.
Cracks have developed in the pier. Is it safe? You know the kind of
thing."

"Yes, I know," agreed Foyle, with a smile and a glance at the waiting
boats. "Well, it's nice weather. Green and I are just going off with
Wrington. There's some question of increasing the river staff, and we've
got to go into it."

Jerrold nodded as gravely as though he quite accepted the explanation.
In fact, Foyle, shrewd as he was, could not feel certain that he had.
The journalist took a casual glance about the wide stretch of water, and
with an unconscious gesture that had become habitual with him flung back
the lock of hair that dangled over his right eyebrow.

"Got a minute to spare?" he asked. "A rather quaint thing happened at
our office. You know they're excavating the foundations for a big hotel
in Piccadilly? Well, on Monday a couple of burly navvies, carrying a big
paper parcel, came up to the _Wire_ office and Brashton saw them.

"'Me an' my mate 'ere,' says the spokesman, ''ave been employed on