The jig-saw puzzle to which he had likened criminal investigations was not so jumbled as it had been. One or two bits of the picture were beginning to stick together, though there were others that did not seem to have any points of junction. Foyle pulled out the dossier of the case, and again went over the evidence that had been collected. He knew it practically by heart, but one could never be too certain that nothing had been overlooked. He was so engaged when Mr. Fred Trevelyan was announced. "Fred Trevelyan? Who is he?" he asked mechanically, his brain still striving with the problem he wished to elucidate. "That's the name he gave, sir," answered the clerk, who ranked as a 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.