nd to enter
single-handed--a place in which the precautions against surprise were so
complete that every article which could be identified as a gambling
implement was made of material which could be readily burnt, or soluble
at a temperature lower than that of boiling water. A big saucepan was
continually simmering on the fire, so that the implements could be
dropped in it at a second's notice.

But Heldon Foyle had hopes. At the worst he could only fail. He returned
to Scotland Yard and shut himself up for twenty minutes in the make-up
room. When he reached Smike Street again he was no longer the spruce,
upright, well-dressed official. A grimy cap covered tousled hair. His
face was strained, his eyes bloodshot and his moustache combed out
raggedly. A set of greasy mechanic's overalls had been drawn over his
own clothes. He walked uncertainly.

Green and the local inspector saw him reel past the public-house in
which they still remained, as affording an excuse to be near the spot,
and reel up Smike Street. Towards the end he appeared confused and
gravely inspected several houses before approaching the gambling-joint.
He rapped on the door with his knuckles, ignoring both the knocker and
the bell. It opened a few inches wide, enough for the scowling face of
Jim the door-keeper to appear in the aperture.

Supporting himself with one hand on the door-post, Foyle leered amiably
at the Cerberus. "Hello, old sport, I want t'come in. Open the door,
can't you?"

"Git out of it, you drunken swab. You don't live here," said Jim, taking
stock of the drunken intruder and coming to a quick decision.

The door slammed. Foyle beat a tattoo on the panels with his hands,
swaying perilously to and fro the while. Again the door opened the
cautious six inches, and Jim's face was not pleasant to look on as he
swore at the disturber.

"Tha'ss allri', ol' sport," hiccoughed Foyle. "I want to come in. A Bill
Reid tol' me if I wanted--hic--game I was to come here. You know ol'
Bill Reid"--this almost pleadingly--"he'll tell you I'm allri', eh?"

The door-keeper of the gaming-house holds an onerous responsibility. On
him depends the safety of the gamblers from interference by the
representatives of law and order. Jim's suspicions were lulled by
Foyle's quite obvious drunkenness. Nevertheless, a drunken man who had
apparently been told of the place was a danger so long as he remained
clamouring for admittance on the step. Jim tried tact.