detective-sergeant. "I should call him Dutch Fred."

"Oh, I was wandering. Send him in."

There was nothing of the popular conception of the criminal about Freddy
as he swaggered into the room, bearing a glossy silk hat of the latest
fashionable shape on one arm. His morning coat was of faultless cut. His
trousers were creased with precision. Grey spats covered his well-shone
boots.

Foyle shook hands with him, and his blue eyes twinkled humorously. "On
the war-path, I see, Freddy. Sit down. What's the game? Going to the big
fight?"

The last remark was made with an object. Professional boxing attracts
perhaps a larger number of the criminal fraternity than any other sport,
except, possibly, horse-racing. In many cases, it is purely and simply
love of the game that attracts. There is no ulterior motive. But in the
case of Freddy, and men in his line, there was always the chance of
combining pleasure with profit. The hint was not lost on the
pick-pocket. A hurt expression crossed his face.

"No, Mr. Foyle," he declared earnestly. "I don't take any interest in
boxing. I just called in to put you wise to something as I was passing."

"That's very nice of you, Freddy. What was it?"

The pick-pocket dropped his voice. "It's about Harry Goldenburg," he
said. "I saw him to-day."

Foyle beat a tattoo on his desk with his fingers. "That so?" he said
listlessly. "Out on the Portsmouth Road, I suppose?"

Dutch Fred sat up with a start. "Yes," he agreed, "just outside
Kingston. How did you know?"

"Just a guess," laughed the superintendent. "Well, what about it? Did
you speak to him?"

"I didn't have a chance," retorted Freddy. "I was in a little run-about
with a pal when he came scooting by hell-for-leather. We only got a
glimpse of him, and if he noticed us he made no sign. I thought you'd
like to know, that's all. It was an open car, brown colour. I couldn't
see the number for dust; it was A something."

"Well, we know all that," said Foyle. "All the same, Freddy, I am glad
you dropped in: I won't forget it."

"Right oh, Mr. Foyle. Good evening." And the pick-pocket swaggered out,
while Foyle thoughtfully stowed away his papers.

Some one brought in a cup of tea and some biscuits, and his watch showed
him that it was a quarter to five. He had promised to call on Lady
Eileen about six o'clock, and his mind dwelt on the potentialities of
the interview as he lingered over his frugal meal. He had just poured
out hi