t it back hastily into the
sheath at his belt. There were men there who would have thought little
of murder, and Foyle knew that once they were roused to fighting-pitch
he stood little chance. At the first sign of flinching on his part they
would be on him like a pack of wolves. He held them for the moment only,
as a lion-tamer holds his beasts under control--by fearless domineering
assumption of authority. They were like a flock of sheep. Only two men
he feared--Ivan and Keller. Both were men above the average
intelligence, and both had more reason to fear the law than the others.
If either of them took the initiative he might be placed in an ugly
position. He felt for his whistle while they remained inactive,
uncertain.

"Let's teach the dog a lesson," hissed a venomous voice--that of Keller.
"He's trying to bluff us."

"Boot him, boys," incited Ivan, edging forward and so creating a
movement towards the detective.

Heldon Foyle put his whistle between his teeth and gripped the heavy
chair with both hands. As the rush came he blew the whistle three times
in the peculiar arrangement of long and short blasts that is the special
police call, and swung the chair down with all his force on the leading
man. It was Keller. The gaming-house keeper dropped, stunned, and the
detective swept the chair sideways and so forced a clear space about
himself. Again the whistle thrilled out, and Ivan dodging sideways
seized one of the legs of Foyle's unwieldy weapon. Menacing faces
besieged the detective on all sides. Other hands assisted the Russian to
hold the chair. And still no help came. Once the door opened and the
wrinkled leathern face of a Chinaman protruded through the slit, took in
the scene with quick understanding and disappeared. That was all the
notice taken of the row by the habitues of the opium den on the high
floor. The two or three clients who were stretched on the low couches
were either entirely under the influence of the drug or too listless to
worry about anything short of an earthquake--if even that would have
aroused them.

It was with small hope that the superintendent sounded his whistle
again. A heavy blow on the face laid open his cheek, and he saw the
little red-headed man who had slipped on his heavy brass knuckle-duster
dodge back into the crowd. He relinquished his hold of the chair and
defended himself with his hands. He carried a pistol in his pocket, but,
imbued with the traditions of the London