 Chapter 46 It was to Heldon Foyle's own house, and not to Scotland Yard, that Green telephoned eventually, clad in a bright blue dressing-gown the superintendent listened with a few non-committal interjections until his lieutenant had finished. On his own land-day, he said at last, what do you make of it, Green? Is it genuine, or has he done it just to throw us off and doubled back on his trail? It looks as if he intended us to find that motor-car. Green disagreed. It's a deserted, blind road made for woodcutters years ago. It was only a chance that a constabulary sergeant found it. He may have left it there for the time being, relying on coming back to hide it properly out of sight, and this is an ideal place for anyone to keep close. It would take a thousand men to search the wood anything like thoroughly. There's some sort of house on the estate, I suppose, demanded Foyle. Yes, I've not been up to it, but I'm told it's a big, rambling old place called Dalehurst Grange, approached through sloping meadows and backing onto the woods. It would be easy for a man to see anyone in the house coming from the front and slip away into the undergrowth. Malley's gone up to have a look at the place. We'll need a search warrant to go over the place, but I don't think it'll be any good. Nor I, agreed Foyle. It'll have to be done some other way. You've asked the county constabulary to make inquiries and to watch the railway stations round about, of course. All right. You end things on your own discretion, and if you or Malley see me, just shut your eyes. Now give me your address and report to the yard as usual." The superintendent lit a cigar after he had replaced the receiver, and thoughtfully toasted his slippered feet before the fire. Presently he rose, turned over the leaves of a timetable, and discovering that Dalehurst possessed no railway station, discarded it in favour of a gazetteer. From that he found that the village was four miles from Deepnook, and the timetable again consulted, showed him that he could reach the latter place in a couple of hours from Waterloo. Before he went to bed that night, he packed the kitbag that had accompanied him in most of his wanderings all over the globe. Other things than clothes found a place in its depths. Among them, a gemmy, some putty, and a glazier's diamond. The superintendent had an idea that they might be more effective than a search warrant. Yet as he turned the key, he realised that the energy and the efforts of both himself and Green might be wasted. There was a possibility that it was a blind trail, that Greil had contrived the whole thing as a blind, and had slipped out of the net that had been drawn for the brown motor-car. The thought induced Foil to telephone through to headquarters to order a fresh warning to be wired through to the police at all the ports. He believed in leaving as little as possible to chance. The night staff was still on duty when he reached Scotland Yard the next morning. The detective inspector in charge stared at a corpulent man clad in a Norfolk jacket, knicker-bockers of brown tweed, whose heavy boots clanged along the corridor. The hair, mustache, and eyebrows of the intruder were a shiny black, and the little trimming with scissors and a judicious use of a comb and brush had altered the appearance of the superintendent's face as completely as the clothes had altered his figure. He was no believer in stage disguises. False beards and wigs were liable to go wrong at critical moments. He nodded reassuringly to the inspector and placed his kit-bag on the floor. It's all right. I'm Foil right enough. I'm thinking of a change of air for a day or two. Was all the explanation he vouchsafed. I want to just run through my letters and catch the nine-ten train from Waterloo. I'll leave a note over for Mr. Mainland, he'll take charge while I'm away. He went methodically through the heavy morning's correspondence, penciling a few notes here and there on the letters, and sorting them into baskets ranged on the table as he finished. Precisely at a quarter to nine he touched a bell and gave a few brief instructions. Then carrying his bag he descended the flight of steps at the front entrance and walked briskly along the embankment. As he crossed the footway of Hungerford Bridge, a biting wind swept up the river and he shivered, warmly clad though he was. One of his own men passed without recognizing him and the superintendent smiled to himself. There were five minutes to spare when he sank into the corner seat of a smoking compartment and composed himself with a couple of morning papers for the journey, but he read very little. There was much to occupy his mind, and as the train slipped out of Waterloo Station he tossed the periodicals aside, crossing his knees, blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and with a little gold pencil made a few notes on a visiting card. London slipped away, and an aeroplane flying low came into his line of vision as they passed Weybridge. The open pasture meadows gave place to more wooded country, and he placed his pencil back in his pocket as they ran into Deepnook. A solitary porter shuffled forward to take his bag. Foyle handed it over. Is there a good hotel in this place, he asked? There's the anchor, sir, answered the porter. It's a rare good place, and they say as our Lord Nelson stayed there once. They aren't very busy at this time of the year. Only one or two motorists stop in there. What's good enough for Nelson is good enough for me. Is it far, or can you carry that bag there? The porter hastened to reassure the gentleman. It was a bare three minutes walk. Might he ask if the gentleman was staying long? Foyle wasn't sure. It depended on how he liked the country and on the weather. By the way, he went on with an air of one faintly curious. Didn't Mr. Grell, who was murdered in London, have some property this way, Dalehurst Grange or something? I suppose you never saw him. That I have asserted the porter, eager to associate himself, however remotely, with the tragedy. I've seen him time and again. He always used this station when he came down from London, though that wasn't often worse luck. He was a nice sort of gentleman, though some of the Folkstown ear pretended that he was not what you'd call in proper society, because he was an American. But I always found him generous and free-handed, and to think of him being done to death, my missus says she's afraid to go to bed afore I go off duty now. It was a great shock to us that murder. He spoke with a solemn shake of the head, as though he lived in daily dread of assassination himself. You see the last train through, I suppose, asked Foil irrelevantly. Yes, sir, the ten nine up. As I was saying, what would these ear murders and things? Have they shut the Grange up, or is there still some one living there? Well, they got rid of most of the servants. I believe they're still a housekeeper there, and a maid, as well as a gardener. I remember when Mr. Grell first took over the place. Bill Ellis, he's the blacksmith, says to me. He entered into lengthy reminiscence, to which Foil only paid casual heed. He had learned what he wanted to know. Grell, if he had left the neighborhood the preceding night, had not done so from Deepnook, where he would have infallibly been recognised. The porter was still talking when they passed under the branching arms of the giant chestnut that shaded the courtyard of one of the prettiest of the old coaching-ins of England. Foil slipped a shilling into his guide's hand, and registered himself as Alfred Frampton, London. Local gossip is often of service to the man who knows how to lead it into the right channels. The superintendent decided that an hour or two might be profitably wasted in the lounge, where half a dozen men were sitting at a small table before a huge open fireplace. He ordered a drink and sat a little apart, relying on their provincial curiosity to presently drag him into the conversation. By the time the lunch he had ordered for one o'clock was ready, his habit of handling men had stood him in good stead. Mr. Frampton of London had paid for drinks, told half a dozen good stories, laughed at a score of bad ones, asked many innocent questions, and deftly given the impression that he was a London businessman in search of a few weeks' rest from over-strain. Moreover, he had gained some knowledge of the lay of the country and acquaintances who might be useful, one never knew. The afternoon saw him tramping through the picturesque countryside with its drooping hills and wooded valleys. He moved as one careless of time, whose only object was to see the country. Once he stayed to talk with a stone-breaker by the side of the road, once he led a farmer's restive horse and trapped by a traction-engine, on both occasions he contrived to drop a good deal of information about himself, and his reasons for being in that part of the country. That it was false was little matter. The best way to stop local gossip is to feed it. A mysterious quiet stranger would be speculated about. The amiable businessman from London, with a love of chat, was quite unlikely to arouse suspicions. Sooner or later, Grell, if he were in the neighborhood, would learn of the presence of Green and Mally. His attention would be concentrated on what they were doing. Foyle, acting independently, was looking for an opening to attack from the rear. He had a great opinion of Grell's capacity for getting out of awkward situations. He sauntered through Dalehurst, stopping at a little general store to buy some tobacco, and gather more gossip. The village shop invariably focuses village gossip. A garrulous old dame talked at large with the affable stranger, and when the superintendent emerged, he was certain that Chief Inspector Green and those acting with him had succeeded in maintaining an adequate discretion in regard to the events of the preceding night. As Foyle passed on, he observed a man hurrying towards him and recognized Mally. Abruptly the superintendent turned his back, and leaning his arms upon a low stone wall seemed lost in contemplation of a little churchyard. When the divisional inspector had passed on, Foyle resumed his walk. It cost him some little trouble to find the road in which the motor car had been left derelict. The sodden earth still retained wheel tracks, and it needed but a glance to show that the car had been removed but a few hours before. He walked on till he came to the place where Green had found the strip of brown cloth, which was fairly plain to find, for the footsteps of Green and the other police officers when they followed the trail ceased there as Grails had done. Here he drew a small pocket compass from his waistcoat pocket, and pressing a spring released the needle. As it came to rest, he thrust aside the hazel bushes and plunged in among the undergrowth. Now and again he consulted the compass as he walked leisurely forward, wet branches brushing his face and whipping at his clothes. For the brief portion of the way, a keeper's path facilitated his progress, but at last he was forced to abandon this and return to the wilder portion of the wood. He was making a detour which he hoped would lead him to the back of Dalehurst Grange. At last he could see a clear space ahead of him, and in a little sinking on his knees on a bank was peering downhill to an old-fashioned Jacobian manor house, from whose chimney smoke was lazily weaving upwards. Between him and the house a meadow sloped for a hundred yards, and the back of the house was bounded by an irregular orchard. Pity I didn't think to bring a pair of field glasses muttered foil as his eyes swept the place. I can't tell how those mullioned windows are protected. Well, I may as well make myself comfortable, I suppose. A little search rewarded him with a great oak tree, and in the fork of a branch twenty feet high he found an easy seat from which he could watch the house without any great risk of being seen himself. In Mobile as a statue he remained till long after dusk had fallen and a steady light appeared at one of the windows. It was, in fact, ten o'clock, and the light had disappeared when he dropped quietly to earth, and with quick footsteps began to cross the meadow to the orchard. Under the fruit trees the detective moved slower and held his stick before him, softly tapping the ground as though he were blind. He had not taken half a dozen steps before the stick touched something stretched about a foot from the ground, stooping he groped in the darkness. A cord he muttered. Now I wonder if that is merely a precaution against burglars or—and stepping over the obstacle—he went unconsciously feeling his way. Twice more he found cords stretched across the grass so that an unwearied intruder might be tripped up, but his caution enabled him to avoid them. The walls of the house loomed before him. He stepped to the nearest window and tested it. It was fast and tightly, nor could he see inside. Foyle had no taste for the haphazard and would have liked to be certain of the run of the house, but one window was as good as another in the circumstances. He worked deftly with a glazier's diamond for a while, and at last removing one of the diamond panes of glass, thrust his hand through and ended the latch. The window swung open and the superintendent sat down on the grass underneath and swiftly unlaced his boots. In another two minutes he was inside the house and pulling an electric torch from the capacious pocket of his Norfolk jacket. He swept a thin wedge of light about the room. It was furnished as a sitting room, but there was no reason for examining it minutely. Foyle pulled open the door and moved into a thickly carpeted corridor, which made his stocking feet almost unnecessary. Door after door he opened and noiselessly examined with the aid of his single beam of light. By the time he had come to a finely carved old oak staircase he had a rough idea of the plan of the house as far as the ground floor was concerned. The upper floor has demanded more caution, for there the servants might be sleeping. The first door that Foyle tried after the landing was locked. Pressing his ear to the keyhole he could hear the deep regular breathing of someone within. Twice he tried keys without success. At the third attempt the bolt of the lock gave. He pushed the door back and there was a crash as a chair which had been wedged behind it was flung to the floor. A woman shrieked and Foyle drew back into the shadow of the landing cursing his luck. Then there came the sound of rapid footsteps. The superintendent drew himself together and his muscles grew taut as a man came running. A light blazed up as the man passed through the doorway. Foyle caught one glimpse of a square-faced man fully dressed and acted rapidly. He dashed forward and his hand twined itself round the other's wrist. Mr. Robert Grell, I believe, he said suavely. CHAPTER 47 When Helden Foyle leapt forward his whole body had been keyed for a struggle. Whatever resources Grell might have in the house the detective stood alone so far as he knew. It was possible that Green might have arranged to have the place watched, but on the other hand it was unlikely that he would do more than have the roads patrolled and the railway station warned. To have watched the Grange so effectively that no one could get away from it would have taken a score or more of men, and even so the position would have made it impossible for them to have remained hidden. All this Foyle reckoned on. He had hoped to find Grell and to catch him unawares, perhaps asleep. That project had failed, and when the man had replied to the woman's scream Foyle had deemed the boldest course the safest. Grell had wrenched himself round, the fist of his free hand clenched, but he made no attempt to strike. An elderly woman sat up in bed, surprised and terror in her face. Just behind Foyle stood two maids in their night attire, shivering partly with cold, partly with fright, their eyes wide open. That is my name, answered Grell, speaking as quietly as Foyle himself. I can guess who you are. If you all wait just a moment while I assure these women that there is no need for alarm, I will come down and talk with you. You are better go to sleep again, Mrs. Ellis, and you girls get back to bed. This is a friend of mine. The maids retired reluctantly, and Foyle linked his arm affectionately in that of Grell. The alarm in the housekeeper's face did not abate. But who—who is he? demanded Mrs. Ellis, extending a quivering figure in the direction of the superintendent. Grell lifted his shoulders. Mrs. Ellis is my housekeeper here, he explained to Foyle. The maids didn't know I was in the place. It's all right, Mrs. Ellis. I'll just have a chat with this gentleman. Don't you worry. He closed the door as he spoke. Foyle's right hand was resting in his jacket pocket. I may as well tell you, Mr. Grell, he said, that I am armed. If you make any attempt at resistance. You will not dare to shoot, ejaculated Grell, smilingly. Oh, I know. We're in England, not in the backwards. Come downstairs and have a drink. I don't want you to arrest me until we've had a talk. By the way, may I ask your name? Despite himself, the superintendent laughed. If Grell was a murderer, he certainly had coolness. But there might be some trick in the wind. He was keenly on the alert. Foyle is my name, he answered. Superintendent Foyle. I am afraid I shall have to refuse that drink, and as for the talk, I may presently determine to arrest you, so anything you say may be used as evidence. Of course, you know that. Yes, I know that. No objection to my having a drink, I suppose, even if you won't join me. Sorry to seem ungracious, but even that I can't allow. Ah, afraid of poison, I suppose. Just as you like. Well, here we are. If you will let go of my arm, I assure you I will neither attack you nor try to escape, then we can sit down comfortably. They had entered a room whose walls were lined with books and pictures, apparently the library. Foyle shook his head at the other's request. Of course, it might be all right, but the man was a suspected murderer. He would accept no man's word in such a case. I am afraid it is impossible, Mr. Grell, he said gently. I am anxious not to seem harsh, but you see, I am alone with you and my duty. If, however, you will allow me, I have a pair of handcuffs. Why, as his experience had been, he could not recall a notable arrest taking place in this way. He had fallen in with Grell's mood for many reasons, but he chuckled to himself as he made the polite suggestion of handcuffs. Grell did not seem to mind. His self-possession was wonderful. Foyle reflected that it might be reaction the man was possibly glad the tension was over. By all means, if it will make you easier, he said. Foyle slipped the steel-circlits on his wrists, not with the swift-click that is sometimes written off, but with deliberate care that they should fit securely, but not too tightly. The juggling feet of snapping a pair of handcuffs instantly on a man is beyond most members of the CID. Grell selected a chair, and Foyle, watchful as a cat, sat by him. May I ask what you intend to do now? queried the former. Wait till daylight, and then send one of the maids with a message to the nearest police station, replied Foyle. Would you like a cigar? I can recommend these. He proffered his case, and Grell took one. He held it between his fingers with a whimsical smile. Do you mind cutting it and giving me a light, he asked? It's rather awkward with these, uh, ornaments. The superintendent did as he was requested, and Grell puffed luxuriously. Foyle remained silent. Although he was aching to put questions, he dared not. Do you really think that I killed Harry Goldenberg? asked Grell suddenly. I don't know. Confess the superintendent noncommittally. I think you may have. Yes, that's a pity, said Grell, lifting his cigar to his mouth. This affair must have cost you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Foyle, and it's all wasted, because, of course, I had nothing to do with it. I want to know, said Foyle, a bit of American vernacular that came from his lips unconsciously. Tell me why you never announced that I was alive, asked Grell. You'll have to do it, you know. Well, there's no harm in admitting now that one idea was to make you think that we were deceived, and so to throw you off your guard. And it did until you got hold of Ivan. Well, you've made a mistake this time, Mr. Foyle. There were fingerprints on the dagger with which Goldenberg was killed, eh? Foyle inclined his head. His blue eyes were alight with interest, which he made no effort to conceal. He half-guessed what was coming, but he found Grell's ways disconcerting, and could form no certain judgment. Certainly, Grell did not behave like a guilty man—that is, a man guilty of murder—but neither did he behave like an innocent man. He was too totally unconcerned with the gravity of his position. Yes, there were fingerprints, he said. I have a photograph of them in my pocket, if you would like them compared now. With mine, that's what I was about to suggest. You'll find some writing paper and ink in the desk behind you, I suppose they will do. The prisoner smiled as he saw Foyle carefully shift his chair to guard against any sudden rush before turning his back. He was a moment preparing the materials, and then placed a blank sheet of paper on a little table in front of Grell. Will you kindly hold out your hands, he said? As Grell did so, he smeared the tips of the fingers of the right hand with ink. Now press your fingers lightly but firmly on the paper. Thank you. He brought a little standard lamp closer, and under its rays studied the two sets of prints closely. He did not need a magnifying glass to see that none of Grell's finger-marks agreed with the two that were clear on the dagger. Grell leaned back in his chair, as though the matter were one of complete indifference to him. Does that satisfy you, Mr. Foyle? he asked at last. The superintendent nodded as their eyes met. It satisfies me that you did not actually kill the man, he said steadily. Alon, I'm not surprised at that. I believe if you had killed him, you would have been man enough to have stayed and faced the consequences. You will observe that I have not formally arrested you yet. But I do believe that you know all about the crime, that you were perhaps an eyewitness. For the first time during the interview, Robert Grell lost hold of his self-control. His fists clenched, and the steel of the handcuffs bit deep into his wrists, as he momentarily forgot that he was handcuffed. There was a meaning in Foyle's tone that he could not fail to understand. He caught at his breath once or twice, and his temples flamed scarlet. Speak plainly now, he cried hoarsely. What are you hinting at? Slowly, Helden Foyle began to tear the sheet of paper bearing Grell's finger marks into minute fragments. He was calm, inscrutable. I thought I made myself clear, he replied. To make it plainer, I will ask you if a man, famous, rich, and with an honourable reputation, flies on the eve of his wedding day, assisted by his valet, hides himself in a low part of London, and associates with doubtful characters, whose friends abduct and drug police officers, who uses, in short, every effort to avoid or to hamper justice, has not some strong reason for his actions. Is it not plausible to suppose that he is an accessory either before or after the fact? Grell sighed as if in relief, and stooping picked up his cigar which had fallen on the carpet. He had recovered his calm. You are a better judge of evidence than I am, he said, unemotionally. Personally, I don't think the facts you have mentioned would convict me of anything but eccentricity. Who is this Harry Goldenberg anyway? Beyond the fact that he's my double, I know nothing of him. That's certainly a coincidence, but why on earth I should conceal anything I know is beyond me. You're talking nonsense, Mr. Grell, and you know it, said Foil, with a weary little gesture. There's too much to be explained away by coincidence. We know who Harry Goldenberg was, and that there was a strong motive for your wishing him out of the way. He leaned over a little table, and his face was close to Grell's. You can only delay. You cannot prevent justice by keeping your mouth shut. The firm lines of Grell's mouth grew obstinate. I shall stick to my story, he said, and then with a return to his former flippancy of manner. You're a clever man, Mr. Foil. I never realised till you and your men were on my heels how hard a time a professional criminal must have. Even now I am not clear how you knew I was down here. When I found the police in charge of the motor-car I had left, I thought they were merely guarding it as a derelict. I did not guess that you knew I had escaped from London in it. A mere question of organisation, said Foil. As a matter of fact, we know most of your movements from the time you left Sir Ralph Fairfield's flat to the moment you separated from Lady Eileen at Kingston. By the way, she made some money over to you. You may care to know that that was got by forgery. Surprise had leapt into Grell's face as the superintendent dryly recounted his movements. It was succeeded by a flash of fury at the last words. Be careful, Sir, he said tensely. You need not lie to me. It is the simple truth. Lady Eileen got a note from you asking for money. She had none, and her father was out, so she signed a check in his name and cashed it personally. Grell's face had become grey and he buried it in his hands. His shoulders shook, and Foil could understand how hardly he had been hit. To have had to appeal to the girl for monetary help was bad enough. To find that she had committed a crime to help him was to add an anguish to his feelings that he had not known before. Somewhere in the house a clock struck midnight, the slow, deep strokes reverberating heavily. She did that, for me, said Grell, lifting his head, haggard and won. Then, as a thought occurred to him, she is not under arrest. No, I had her word that she would inform her father. Grell made no answer. He stared moodily in front of him. The superintendent had no desire to break in on his reverie. He walked across the room, picked up a magazine, and sat down, again facing his prisoner, where he idly turned over the pages. Presently, Grell's head drooped forward. He was asleep. CHAPTER VIII. The hours dragged wearily with Foil. The soft breathing of the sleeping man as he rested, with his head pillowed on his arms, was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. The superintendent himself dared not sleep. He tried to read, but the magazines failed to interest him. He got up, and quietly strolled about the room, examining the bookcases with incurious interest. His thoughts were busy. Apart from all the other facts, Grell's manner was more than sufficient confirmation of the fact that he was holding something back, something vital to the success of the investigation. The superintendent had a very shrewd idea of his reasons. Grell was a strong man, a man likely to hold to his own line at all costs. He had already proved that no personal considerations would move him. The superintendent reviewed the situation impartially. His brow furrowed, his lips tight-pressed together. He was as certain as though he held the other's sign confession that Robert Grell had it in his power to say who killed Goldenberg. How would he break through his silence? For come what might, he felt that Grell's place was rather in the witness-box than in the dock, that he preferred the dock was proof of the strength of the motive which actuated him. No amount of persuasion, Foyle knew, would make him open his lips. Disgrace by the fear of a public trial had failed to move him. If he was to be induced to tell his secret, it must be by strategy. Helden Foyle held his own code of ethics in his profession. In his own mind, he held that all things which were legal were permissible in facilitating the ends of justice. Grell could, if he were so minded, give sworn evidence on what Foyle could only suspect. Grimly, the superintendent resolved that in a contest of will he would win. A gentle tap at the door broke his train of reflection, and the white face of the housekeeper peered in. Her eyes rested first on the sleeping man, but his attitude concealed the handcuffs. She turned a half-frightened glance on Foyle. Excuse me, sir. I couldn't sleep, so I dressed, and thought I would look in to see if Mr. Grell or you would like anything. Perhaps a cup of coffee? No, thank you, said the superintendent. By the way, now you're here, you'll perhaps tell me whether you expected Mr. Grell's arrival. Didn't you think he was dead? She advanced a little into the room, closing the door behind her. That I did, sir, she answered timorously. I couldn't make it out when I got his telegram from Liverpool. It gave me a shock. From Liverpool, repeated Foyle slowly, so he sent a wire from Liverpool, did he? Would you mind if I had a look at it? He could see the hesitation in her face, and went on. See here, Mrs. Ellis, there has been a murder, though fortunately Mr. Grell was not the victim. I am interested in the matter, and you'll be acting in his interests if you show it to me. I don't know what to do, I'm sure, quavered the woman irresolutely. I was supposed to have burnt it. Hadn't I better wake him up, and then he can let you look if he likes? A strong hand pushed her back as she would have endeavoured to rouse Grell. I shouldn't worry him if I were you, said Foyle. You may take it that I have a right to see that message. He spoke authoritatively. Her hand fumbled beneath her apron, and she produced a buff-coloured envelope. The detective took out and unfolded the wire. He read, Mrs. Ellis, Dalehurst, Grange, Dalehurst, there has been mistake of identity. I'm safe and well. Shall be down this evening, but time uncertain. Please have room ready. Let no one know you have heard from me. Burn this." The detective refolded the telegram, and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. His mind dwelt more on the significance of its dispatch from Liverpool than on the message itself. The princess had been at Liverpool. It was a plausible presumption that she had sent the wire, and that she therefore must have been in touch with Grell. Yes, I guess you must have been a bit startled when you got that, he said. Did Mr. Grell give any explanation when he came? Yes, in a way. He got here an hour or two after it came, and must have let himself in with his own key. He walked in on me while I was doing some sewing in my own sitting-room. He said that the police had asked him to keep out of the way, because if it was known that he was alive it might hamper them. He told me not even to let the maids know that I was here, and he came straight up to this room and locked himself in. I had made a bed ready, but he has slept on the couch over there. She nodded towards a big settee under the window. He said the bedroom might do for a lady friend he was expecting who might arrive at any moment. He told me, too, that it might be necessary to leave suddenly. The old lady had, it was evident, made a good guess at the identity of her questioner, or she would not have answered so freely, in spite of the detective's authoritative manner. Foyle put one or two further questions to her, and then dismissed her with a quiet word of thanks. He began to see that he had struck harder than he knew when he had descended on the house in the guise of a burglar. Dalehurst Grange was, of course, a rendezvous, and the Princess Petrovska was on her way to join Grale. The superintendent rubbed his hands together as he thought of the surprise in store for her. Dawn was breaking over the woods when Robert Grale awoke with a shiver. He stood up and stretched himself. Good morning, Mr. Foyle, he said, genially. I'm afraid I dropped off, but I've had rather a wearying time of late. Now, what's the programme? I suppose a bath is out of the question, or, with a glance at his fettered hands, even a wash may be dangerous. Faith, you don't believe in running risks? Foyle smiled in response to the banter. Only a fool runs risks when there's nothing to be gained, but I'm prepared to run one if you like to fall in with a plan I've thought out. You're not under arrest yet. You needn't be if you care to undertake to give evidence when the inquest is resumed. For you are at present the only person who can clear up the whole thing. Mind you, it would depend on what came out at the inquest whether we should then arrest you. I can give no guarantee about it. But if you accept, all that will be necessary is to quarter a couple of my men with you for the time being. Grel walked to the window and stared out upon the wooded country. Presently he wheeled upon the superintendent with a short laugh. My dear man, he cried, you will harp on that one point. I appreciate your offer of comparative liberty, but if I accepted, I should do so under false pretenses, because my evidence will be that I know nothing. You can't stop my knowing the truth, answered Foyle equibly. Soon or later I shall be able to prove it, and if you persist it will make things much more unpleasant for you. The other said nothing for a while. A struggle was taking place in his mind that was indicated with the nervous twitching of the fingers. His shoulders were bent and his head bowed. Foyle waited patiently. Outside a bird started a jick-jick-jick brrr that set the teeth on edge. The trees, stirred by a newly sprung-up breeze, rustled un-easily. No, it's no good, said Grel at last. I know nothing. The detective rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Will you tell me if you had any visitors on the evening of the murder, he inquired, blandly ignoring the other's refusal. He noticed a quick flash of surprise pass over Grel's countenance and drew his own conclusions. Swiftly a new thought came to him. Did Goldenberg come to you alone? The prisoner remained silent, and Foyle knew that he was considering the advisability of answering. I don't see why you shouldn't know that, if you want to. He came with a friend of mine. She left shortly afterwards. She, Foyle, seized on the word. It was a woman, then. Grel bit his lip. He had said more than he meant to. The superintendent frowned thoughtfully, and his active brain was beginning to see things more clearly. It was a full five minutes before he spoke again, as one making an assertion, rather than asking a question. That would be Lola, of course. His blue eyes met Grel's frown with an ingenuous stare. This is beginning to get clearer, Mr. Grel. Goldenberg was blackmailing you, eh? Maybe he had letters which you wouldn't have liked Lady Eileen to see. What? An ejaculation came from Grel. The detective directed his gaze to a picture opposite him, and continued as though thinking aloud, Now I come to think of it. Was Goldenberg a relative of yours? The likeness is amazing. Well, suppose for the sake of argument he was, and Lola, where does Lola stand? Was it to her by any chance that the letters were directed? Was she merely a friend, or did she stand in close a relationship to either of you? Grel yawned ostentatiously, but although Foyle had been apparently looking away from him, he had followed the effect on the other's face of every one of the seemingly casual questions he had put. I am afraid I am boring you. It's a bad habit, thinking aloud. It does seem futile, agreed Grel. You surely have little need to exercise yourself about these things. Ah, you think so? I am beginning to think that something more is necessary. It may be—of course, this is only for the sake of illustration—that the dagger was handled by someone after the murder had occurred. However, let the subject drop. Perhaps your housekeeper will get us some breakfast while one of the girls runs into Dale Hurst. While waiting for a reply, he rang the bell and gave some directions, with a note to the housekeeper. The breakfast that she ultimately served up was a credit to her skill as a cook. Both men ate with an appetite that the unusual nature of the situation did not destroy, though Grel found the handcuffs troublesome. The superintendent laid down his knife with a sigh of content. The sound of a motor-car horn was borne faintly in upon them. In a few minutes the housekeeper ushered Green and Mally into the room. The chief inspector returned Foil's greetings and flung his heavy overcoat onto a chair. His eyes wandered over the prisoner with a little pardonable curiosity. Grel bore the inspection with a smile. I congratulate you, sir, said Green. We'll have the thing fairly straightened out in a day or two now. I hope so, said Foil. Mr. Mally, will you stay with this gentleman for five minutes? I want to speak to you in another room, Green." He led the way to the little sitting-room, through the window of which he had affected an entrance. A look of comprehension spread over Green's face as he noticed the missing diamond pane. Mally told me he passed you in the village yesterday. You got our man quicker than I should have thought possible in the circumstances. How did he take it? The superintendent gave a brief recapitulation of the steps he had taken since he left London. Green rubbed his grizzled head and followed the recital with keen appreciation. It did not occur to him to feel hurt that Foil had acted independently. As a matter of fact he said, I've got a search warrant in my pocket, and we were coming over this house today. I didn't anticipate much profit because he could have easily slipped away into the woods. I got the county constabulary to put a cordon of patrols round about, and hoped to drive him into their hands, but it was a slim chance. However, we've got him now. Yes, we've got him now, agreed Foil. There only remains the Petrovska woman, and we'll have her today. Listen." He told of what he had learned from the housekeeper, and they discussed the probabilities of the woman reaching Dalehurst Grange. If she managed to escape Blake and the other detectives, who were hot-foot on her trail, there was little doubt that she would walk blindly into a trap. That she had not already reached the Grange and departed, Foil was satisfied, although she had had ample time to travel from Liverpool. As Green phrased it, she might almost have walked it. But the exigencies of the pursuit might have brought about delay if she attempted to confuse her track. If Foil had been able to get in touch with Blake, he would have called him off in order to let her proceed unfettered. That could not be done. She'll not dream any things wrong here if we're careful, said Green. Will you wait for her, or shall I? This is up to you, Green. I'll leave you. You might have had Mally, but I can't drive the car myself, and I want to get back to town. Do you think you'll be able to manage alone? I think so, said the Chief Inspector confidently. I'll get the local superintendent to send up a couple of plain clothesmen as we pass. You'll bring her straight back to town. Aye." In a quarter of an hour all preparations were finished. Mally was in the driving-seat of the car. Foil and Grel sat in the tonneau, and it was no coincidence that the right hand of the prisoner and the left hand of the detective were hidden beneath the rug which covered their knees, for Foil had handcuffed his man to himself. It was merely a matter of travelling precaution. The superintendent did not believe that Grel would attempt to escape, but there was no excuse for giving him any temptation. Anyway, it did no harm. You'll charge him with the murder directly you reach town, I suppose, whispered Green, standing by the step of the car. Murder, repeated Foil, Grel did not commit the murder. I shall detain him a day before making any charge against him at all. Drive on, Mally. See you later, Green. The car whizzed away. Chief Inspector Green stood bareheaded in front of the house, scratching his head, and with a look of bewilderment on his face. It is permissible, in certain circumstances, for the police to detain a suspect without making any charge for a period of not more than twenty-four hours. Heldon Foil had taken advantage of this to hold Grel while he tried to draw further together the tangled threads of the investigation. He had changed out of his tweeds, and, once more the spick-and-span man about town, he sat down in his office with an order that he was to be informed the moment that Sir Hillary Thornton returned. Meanwhile, he occupied himself with the work of composition. It was necessary to break gently to the public the fact that Robert Grel was not dead, but it had to be done in the right way. He could not altogether see what evidence might have to be offered at the inquest, but he was sure the newspapers would label it sensational. He wanted to prepare, at any rate, for the revelation of the dead man's identity, that there was no possibility of avoiding, but it could be rendered less startling if it did not come suddenly, and beyond the public interest in the case, Foil had another reason for the publication of his effort. He worked steadily, and made three drafts before he had completed his task. Two of them he tore up, and the third he read over carefully, making one or two alterations. When the inquest in reference to the Grave Nogarden's murder is resumed, it is understood that evidence of a remarkable nature will be brought forward by the police. Inquiries made by the CID have placed it beyond all doubt that the crime was not a planned one, and evidence is still being collected against a suspected person. A man for whom a rigorous search has been made by the police has been found in a Sussex village by Scotland Yard officers, acting in conjunction with the county constabulary. He was taken to Malchester Rowe police station, where he has been detained. It is understood that he refuses to give any account of the circumstances in which he took to flight. On inquiry at Scotland Yard yesterday, a representative of this journal was informed that the officers engaged on the case expect to be in a position to clear up the mystery in the course of the next few days. That ought to do, he muttered, as he blew down a speaking tube. To the detective inspector who came in response to his summons, he handed the paper. Have fifty copies of that made, and bring me one. Put some one to phone through to all the journalists on the list, asking them to call here at half-past six to-night. They reached to have a copy of that. There was Gael in Foils fixing of the time. He knew that the paragraph would be a bombshell in Fleet Street, and did not want it to explode prematurely. At half-past six all the evening papers would have ceased publication for the day. At half-past six too he would take good care to be far away from the hordes of pressmen, hungry for details, who would strive to find more information from the hints given. At that time they were likely to find any person wiser than themselves, and he had seen to it that there should be no indiscretion at Malchester Row. Sir Hillary just come in, sir, said someone, opening the door just wide enough to permit a head to be thrust within, but before Foil could move the assistant commissioner himself walked in. One moment Sir Hillary said the superintendent and dashed out to return again almost immediately. I just wanted to make certain that we shouldn't be disturbed. There's a lot to tell you. Things have been happening." So I gather, said the other, settling himself in the armchair. You've got Grel I hear. What's the next move? Do his fingerprints agree? They do not. He is not the murderer, but he won't say who is. The next move is that I intend that to go in all the morning papers. He placed in Thornton's hand a copy of the typewritten paragraph, and the assistant commissioner read it slowly through. I don't quite follow, he said, as he handed it back. It hints that Grel will be charged with the murder. Exactly. It is intended to convey that impression, to tell you the truth I have a piece of evidence of which I have not spoken to you before. It indicates a person possibly guilty whom we must not neglect. If she is guilty, which I half doubt, that paragraph may help us to get at the missing evidence. His voice sank to a whisper, and he leaned forward with arms out spread over his desk. As he spoke, Thornton's voice changed. He leapt to his feet, and brought his fist down vehemently on the desk. I don't believe it, man, he cried. I don't believe it, it's incredible. You've made a mistake, it can't be. Why, you've believed it was Grel yourself all along. If you've made a mistake, then why not now? Foil's chin became a trifle aggressive. Thornton's astonishment was natural, but the superintendent did not like the appearance of lack of confidence. His blue eyes were alight. You can draw your own inference from the fact, sir Hillary, he said coldly. I am clear in my mind. I have done nothing, because I want to make the evidence as to motive indisputable. Should I find I am wrong, I shall, of course, write out my resignation. Thornton was not usually an impulsive man. He had recovered himself immediately upon his outburst, and was once more calm and self-possessed. Don't be offended, Foil, he said, more mildly. I beg your pardon. It was just a bit startling at first. We've been associated too long for misunderstanding. I'll back you up, and there's not going to be any talk of resignations. Thank you, sir Hillary, said the superintendent entirely mollified. Going to the big safe, he unlocked it, and took something from the shelf which he handed to the assistant commissioner. The two bent over it. It was nearly two hours before the two concluded their task, so Hillary, his hands clasped behind his back, walked in deep thought back to his own room, held in foil put on his hat and coat, and ordered a taxi. Brixton prison, he said to the driver. There are many people who pass Brixton prison every day who have no conception of its whereabouts. The main entrance is tucked away a hundred yards or so down an unobtrusive turning off Brixton Hill. Within a little gate-house inside the barred gates a principal warder sits on duty. Although Foil was tolerably well known to the prison officials, the usual formalities had to be gone through, and he was kept outside till a note he had pencils was sent up and replied to by the governor. Then, conducted by a warder, he was taken over the flagged courtyard and through long corridors to the remand side of the prison. Another warder opened one of the heavy cell doors, and a man seated on a low bed looked up with a frown of recognition. The superintendent remained standing by the doorway. Sorry to trouble you, Abramovich, he said briskly, I just wanted to have a little talk with you. Ivan rose and deliberately turned his back. You must go to my solicitor if you have any questions to ask, he said sullenly. Helden Foil seated himself at the end of the bed and nursed his stick. That wouldn't be of much use, would it, he asked smilingly. What I want to speak to you about has nothing to do with the present charge against you. Mr. Grell is in our hands now, and in the circumstances I thought you might care to know it. The valet wheeled about and thrust his face close to the immobile face of the detective. You've arrested Mr. Grell, he cried. Are you lying? I am not lying. He is in custody, and may be charged unless you like to clear him. Ivan took a couple of short steps. His lips were firmly pressed together. The detective watched him narrowly as he came to an abrupt halt. You think I can clear him, he said slowly? You are wrong. But you know he never committed the murder. The words came sharp as a pistol shot. Ivan never answered, and Foil went on, You have done all you could to help him escape us. Now we have got him, you can only help him by telling the truth. There was some strong motive to induce you to take all the risks you have done. What is at the back of it? Ivan studied his questioner suspiciously. Foil made haste to dispel what was at the back of his mind. You've had reason for refusing to speak before, he insisted. I'm not blaming you. Consider the thing fairly as it stands now, and you'll see that you best serve your master by perfect frankness. I'm not trying to trap you. You may trust me. The scowl on the face of the valet faded, and his sloping shoulders squared a little. You are right. Secrecy can no longer do good, he said. I will tell you what I know. He sat down by Foil's side and went on, I was always what you English call a bad egg. I broke with my family many years ago, it doesn't matter who they were, and left Russia to become an adventurer at large. In the years that followed I was everything everywhere, seamen, barber, waiter, soldier, and gambling house cheat. I wasn't particular how I picked up a living nor where it led me. All that won't interest you. I was operated in a gambling joint at San Francisco when I first met Goldenburg, though I knew him by reputation. He came to our place now and again, and we were on speaking terms. After that Grel came, and I mistook him for the other man. That was how we first became acquainted. That would be almost five years ago, interposed Foil quietly. Just about that. They never came together, by the way, and Grel always called himself Mr. Johnson. His own name would have been too well known. Well, one night, or rather one morning, he had been winning pretty heavily. He must have had close upon four or five thousand dollars in notes on him. At the time I didn't attach any significance to the fact that two or three of the worst tufts at the table went out shortly after him. I followed about five minutes later to get a breath of air, and came on the gang in a narrow deserted street just as they brought Grel down with a sandbag. It was no business of mine, and ordinarily I should have walked away, but that I'd had a little difference with one of the gang earlier in the day, so I sailed in with a gun, broke him up, and helped Grel to his hotel. He came round before I left him, and I told him my name, and he gave me five hundred dollars, telling me to look to him if ever I was in trouble. Well, next day I was fired from my job. I could guess that the people whose game I'd spoiled were at the bottom of it, but that didn't worry me much. I had a bit of money, and I came back to Europe, London, Paris, Vienna, Rome, everywhere but Russia. I lived sometimes by my wits, sometimes by any odd job I could turn my hand to. My father and mother had both died, and my only living relative was my sister, a girl of eighteen living in St. Petersburg, from her I heard occasionally. A spasm crossed his face as though some painful recollection had been brought to his mind, and he passed a handkerchief across his brow, which had suddenly become wet with perspiration. It was through her that I again met Grel, he resumed, speaking more slowly. She was alone and practically unprotected. She wrote to me that a certain high official had been paying her unwelcome attentions, but I suspected nothing till I one day learned that she had been arrested for a political offence. She, who never knew the meaning of the word politics, I knew what that meant. At the time I was in Straits myself, for fortune had not been kind at the cards. This was in Vienna. I was staring out of my window in a kind of days, when I saw a man pass in a motor-car. It was Grel, the man whom I had known as Johnson. In desperation I sought him out. It was easy enough to find where he was staying, and told him my story. I asked him to loan me money, because I knew that I might have to bribe officials. He offered to do more, to accompany me to St. Petersburg, and use all his influence on behalf of my sister. It was at his suggestion that I travelled as his valet. My appearance had altered since I was last in Russia, but difficulties might have arisen. We travelled night and day, but we were too late. The girl who had never harmed a single person in her white life was dead, killed by the hardships to which she had been subjected. I—I— He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, and foil-weighted patiently. Ivan controlled himself with an effort. Grel advised me to come away, but I was determined to stay for a while. I had work to do. I told him nothing, but steadily I sought for the man who had killed her, as surely as though he had plunged a dagger in her heart. I found him at last. Wait a moment, interjected foil quickly. I want to know nothing of that, that has nothing to do with me. He had guessed what work it was that the hot-blooded Russian had remained to do. No man is bound to incriminate himself. It was through Grel that I got away scot-free. No one suspected the valet of so well-known a man. He asked no questions, though I could tell that he knew what—what I knew. He risked much to shield me, although never a word passed between us. Could I do less when it came to my turn? I came back to England with him, and I remained his personal servant. I kept my distance from the other servants. In fact, you pretended to have little acquaintance with English, interrupted foil. Ivan nodded. That was so. On the nights when I was free, I wondered about London and picked up a few older acquaintances, among them being Charlie Condit. I shan't tell what I knew about him, but it was enough to keep him civil, and later on he did what I told him. On the night that the murder occurred, I happened to be in the hall about nine or a little after, when I saw a man and a woman through the shaded glass standing on the steps outside. I opened the door before they could ring. For a moment I thought the man was Mr. Grel, but a second later I recognized Goldenberg. He did not remember me. The woman, too, I knew at once. I had met her occasionally in different cities of Europe. It was the Princess Petrovska. Goldenberg spoke to him in appointment and showed me a note from Mr. Grel directing that the bearish should be shown to the study to await his arrival. That was enough for me. I showed them up and left them. I did not hear Mr. Grel return, but about ten o'clock he rang for me and met me at the door of his study. He told me that he was expecting a lady, and if she called she was to be brought straight up, and he said the other people were just going. Almost immediately after he told me, she came. Wills was going to the door, but I was in front, and I showed her up. Foyle shifted his position a little. Who was she? he asked. I couldn't see her face. She wore a heavy veil. All right, go on. I knocked at the door of the study, but no one replied. She pushed by me and entered, closing the door after her. I went away to my own room. Whatever was taking place was no business of mine. I must have dozed off in my chair, for when I was awakened by Mr. Grel shaking me by the shoulder he was white and quite collected. Ivan, he said, there's been murder. Come with me. Don't speak and tread softly. I followed him into the study. All the lights were out, and before turning them up he locked the door. As he turned the switch I could see the body lying on the couch and drew back. Who is it? I asked. Goldenberg, he replied, and after a pause. He was a relative of mine. I have killed him. You must help me to get away, Ivan. He seemed profoundly moved, and yet held himself strongly in hand. One thing I noticed. Although he said he had done it, his hands and clothes were spotless, and yet there had been much blood about the room. I said nothing of that, and he quickly began to turn things out of his pockets. Both he and the dead man were in evening dress, and he hastily transferred all his property to the dead man's pockets, taking what Goldenberg possessed. He picked up the sheath of the dagger from the floor, it was one he had bought in South America. It will give us a chance to get well clear if they think that this is my body, he explained. Go and pack a bag, Ivan. When I got back with the bag he had finished. He put on a hat and overcoat, and we went out, walked to Victoria Station, and from there took a taxi cab to Charon Cross. From there we walked to an all-night Turkish bath establishment, and that gave us an opportunity to change into some rough tweeds that I'd shoved in the bag. In the morning we went to the East End and fixed up rooms with some people I knew of. We had come away without any money, but Grel somehow managed to get in touch with the Princess Petrovska, with whom apparently he had some arrangement. She had it seems booked through to Paris from Charon Cross, but instead of getting on the boat at Folkstone had returned by the next train and taken quiet lodgings at Kennington. That was to put you on a false track in case of accidents. Foyle smiled a little ruefully. So that was how it was done, he remarked. We were determined to get out of the country, but the reward bill with the description of Goldenberg that pictured Grel stopped us trying ordinary methods. It was necessary to raise money, and I, recklessly enough, I suppose, went out with the pearls which Mr. Grel had entrusted to me in the hope of meeting a jeweller, with whom I had a casual acquaintance, at the restaurant, when you fell in with me. The jeweller's letter which you found on me was, by the way, a forgery. When you seized me, I was taken by surprise. When I was allowed to go, after you had told me that the dead man was not Grel, I felt certain that you would have me followed. Your men were very clever, and I could not shake him off at first. I was determined to go to any length to protect Grel, so I went into an outfitters where there was a public telephone, and put a call to a place where I was sure to find Condit. I fixed up with him to wait for the man who was shadowing me, and I led him down to Whitechapel. It was simple enough for Condit to drop on him from behind, and then the two of us knocked him senseless, got him into a cab, and carried him away to Smike Street, to the place which he raided. Mr. Grel knew nothing about that incident till it was over. He was staying in Gravest Street at the time, and the idea occurred to me of holding your man as a hostage. We, meanwhile, contrived to send a note to Sir Ralph Fairfield. In case of accidents, I was to meet him in Gravest Street, and lead him round about till I was certain he was not followed. Then you were the black-bearded man who fired at me, exclaimed Foil. I might have guessed it. And so you were the navvy, said Ivan. I didn't know that, but I had once made up my mind it was dangerous to meddle with Fairfield if he was watched. I gave him the slip, went back to Mr. Grel, and typed out a note to you. You got it? Yes, I got it. Where did the paper you used come from? Ivan's brow contracted into a frown of deep thought. I forget. No, I got it from Mr. Grel. He tore off a half-sheet from a letter. Foil was thinking of the fingerprints he had found on that note-paper. Ivan plunged again into his narrative. After that the princess came, and Condit. She had fixed up an arrangement with the people living in the house that they were to declare her their daughter if inquiries were made. I don't know if she slept thereafter, but she did that night. We worked out a cipher in order to attempt to communicate secretly with either Sir Ralph Fairfield or Lady Eileen Meredith. As I have said, the lack of money was our trouble, and we had to get some somehow. Condit went away, and I persuaded Mr. Grel to go with him, and spend the night at a gambling-joint in Smike Street. I remained. You see, we guessed you might want to examine the house, but we weren't certain. We were right. As you know, I only got away over the roofs just in time, and the princess slipped away while you were engaged. After that it was a game of hide-and-seek. We decided that it was too dangerous to keep your detective a prisoner, and sent him back in a motor-car we hired. It was easy enough to make a false number to slip over the real one, so that it couldn't be traced. It was my idea after that that Mr. Grel should become a watchman on the river until we could get away by embarking before the mast. We tried the advertisement method of communication, and failed. The princess undertook to see Lady Eileen, with what result you know. You know all that has happened since. I do not regret what I have done. If the killing of you or any other man would have saved Grel, I would not have hesitated. Thanks! said Foyle Dryley. You had a good try more than once. Now, are you willing to have your statement taken down by a shorthand writer, so far as it refers to events in London? I'll repeat it when you like, answered Ivan, squaring his shoulders. Now you say that you want to prove Mr. Grel's innocent, I have nothing to hide, for I am certain that he is innocent. Tell me one other thing, said the superintendent. What is the association between Petrovska and Grel? Why should she have taken part in this business? Ivan spread out his white hands. That you must find out either from Mr. Grel or her. I don't know. Foyle drew out his watch. All right, Ivan. I'll see you again shortly. Meanwhile, I'll send someone along to get your statement. I don't think you'll regret having decided to speak. Goodbye. Yes, sir, answered Green. She's at Malchester Row now. There was no trouble at all. She came up to the Grange at half-past three, in a car, and asked the maid who answered the door for Mrs. Ellis. The girl showed her into a sitting-room, acting on my instructions, and I walked in on her and told her I should detain her. She was angry at first, but in a moment or two she laughed, and asked if Mr. Grel was taken. That was all there was to it. I brought her back straight away by train. She seemed to treat it as a joke, but never a word about the case did she utter. And how did you get on Foyle? demanded the assistant commissioner. The superintendent plumped into a chair. I am sending a man up to get a statement from Ivan, he said. There's much to be said for that rationale if his story is true, and I couldn't see any holes in it. He related particulars of the interview that had taken place in the cell. Neither Thornton nor Green spoke till he had finished. The assistant commissioner smoothed his moustache. Green rubbed his head. Then Grel admitted the murder to Ivan, said the latter, turning a puzzled face to Foyle. He told me he was not the murderer. Nor was he, answered the superintendent. According to Ivan there was no blood on his clothes or on his hands a few minutes after Goldenberg was killed. Well, this beats all, exclaimed Green. I'm hanged if I understand. Foyle lowered his voice to a whisper, and Green's satinine face became as steady as he listened. He gave a little gasp. It lies between the three of them, said Foyle. I am inclined to believe that we have been rather wrong in our first impressions of the fingerprints, but it never does to take chances. Suppose you go and take charge at Barclay Square. There are four men there already. Lady Eileen has certainly had something to do with this, and we don't want to lose sight of her. Green went off his lips puckered into a whistle. Thornton gave a shrug. And now, he said, it seems to me rather a deadlock if Mr. Grel and the princess remain obstinate. Yes, agreed Foyle. It's one of those cases in which it is a pity we're not allowed to adopt the French method of confrontation. Still, there's a shot in the locker yet. Perhaps you might care to come along with me and see Grel now. These disclosures of Ivan's make a difference, and rather bear out a suspicion I've had since I talked with Grel. The assistant commissioner agreed, and in a little they were walking to Malchester Rowe police station. The office of Bolt, the divisional detective inspector, was empty, and with an order that they were not to be disturbed, Foyle and his chief entered the room. Under the escort of a uniformed inspector, Grel was brought in. The superintendent closed and locked the door. Grel moving stiffly aside to allow him to do so. Do you know Sir Hillary Thornton, asked Foyle swavly? Grel bowed. The assistant commissioner extended his hand. How do you do, Mr. Grel? I should have been glad to have met you under happier circumstances, but I assure you that the respect in which I have always held you is not lessened by this unfortunate business. The prisoner shook hands doubtfully, and his eyes flashed a questioning look upon Foyle. The superintendent's face was blandly unconscious of the effect of the assistant commissioner's remark, although the words had been rehearsed and revised a dozen times during their walk to the police station, but he had to do with the man as astute and ready as himself. That's very good of you, I am sure," said Grel, and a smile illumined his face as he added, though I don't know why this matter should increase your respect. Don't you, said Foyle, laying stress on his words and eyeing the other meaningly. Suppose it is because since I left you this morning Ivan Abramovich has made a full statement to me. A little apprehensive shudder swept through Grel's frame, his lips open to say something, but he checked himself suddenly. What's that to do with me? he demanded quietly. A great deal, if it's true, as I know it to be. Now, Mr. Grel, you are not obliged to answer any questions unless you like, you know that, but I warn you that your failing to do so cannot prevent us arresting the guilty person. We know you are innocent, though whether you may be charged as an accessory after the fact or not is another question. What do you say? The prisoner had leaned his arm on the table. His fists were clenched until the fingernails bit into the flesh. If you've made up your minds, so much the better for me, he said with a half laugh. Who have you fixed your suspicions on? It was clear that he had doggedly set himself to avoid affording them any help. His chin was as fixed as that of Foyle himself. The strong wills of the two men had crossed. The superintendent felt all his fighting qualities rise. He was determined to break down the other's wall of imperturbability. He accepted Grel's silence as a challenge. Thornton's gentle, cultured voice broke in. We are only anxious to spare you as much as possible. You are a prominent man, and though you must be brought in, it will serve no purpose to increase what will create enough scandal. I fear you are wasting your time, gentlemen, said Grel, stretching himself wearily. Won't it cut this short if I admit that I killed Goldenburg? I will sign a confession if it will please you. The eyes of Thornton and Foyle met for a second. There was a meaning look in the superintendent's as who should say, I told you so. Then he took from his breastpocket a piece of paper which he unfolded as he smiled aimably at Grel. That is childlike. Your fingerprints prove it is false. Perhaps you will tell us what underlies this note that you sent to Lady Eileen Meredith the day you left London. He read, We are both in imminent danger unless I can procure sufficient money to help me evade the search that is being made for me. If I am arrested, I fear ultimately exposure must come. If you have no other way of obtaining money, will you try to get an open check from your father? You could cash it yourself for notes and Gold and bring it to me. For God's sake, do what you can. I am desperate. He read it swiftly as though certain of the accuracy of the words. As a matter of fact, he was not. He had pieced together the broken words and phrases that he had taken from the burning paper in Eileen Meredith's room as well as he could. In filling up some of the gaps he might have been preposterously wrong. Where did you get that? demanded Grel. Eileen told me she had burnt it. His words were an admission that the note was practically correct. Foyle placed it carefully back in his pocket, while Grel stared at the opal shade of the electric light. She did burn it, he answered. I chanced to be able to retrieve the message. I feel certain that, however dire your necessity, you would not have written to her in that strain unless you had some strong reason. Who did you mean when you said, both in imminent danger? Ivan and myself, of course. Ivan was under arrest at that time. Nothing could avert the danger from him. And you say that you feared exposure if you were arrested. That, of course, meant that you would be unable to keep shielding the person you are shielding. A dangerous fury blazed in Grel's eyes. The fury of some splendid animal trapped and tormented yet unable to escape from its tormentors. He glared savagely at the superintendent. I am shielding no one, he declared. You can, of course, make any answer you like. Suppose we go on to another point which perhaps you will have no objection to clearing up now. We have Harry Goldenberg's record. We know he had been blackmailing you, and we know that he was your brother. No, sit still. He was your brother, was he not? My half-brother, how did you know that? How did you know he was blackmailing me? Grel spoke tensely. Oh, simply enough, the likeness was one thing, and a hint I got from Ivan that he was a relative confirmed me in an opinion I had already formed by another fact. Which I observed when I saw you at Dalehurst, that you had a similar walk. You will remember I asked you if he was a relative, but you would not answer. The supposition that you were being blackmailed was borne out by inquiries made for us by Pinkerton's, which proved that Goldenberg had visited you several times, and that he was always in funds after he left you, however low he might be before. I think it is a fair inference. Quite fair, Grel's face was a little drawn, but he spoke quietly. You are quite correct, Mr. Foyle, as you know so much there can be little harm in enlightening you on that part of the story. I take it that you treat it as confidential. Unless it becomes necessary to use it for official purposes, as evidence or otherwise, said Thornton, before the superintendent could reply, we cannot give an absolute pledge. CHAPTER VII. Very well, I am content with that. The prisoner nursed his chin in his cupped hands and stared unseeingly at the distempered walls. It began years ago, on a little farm in New Hampshire. That was my father's place. He died when I was six or seven, and my mother married again. The man was the father of Harry Goldenberg. I was eight years old when Harry was born. Four years later, my mother died, and when I was sixteen, I ran away from home. You will know something of my career since then. The newspapers have repeated it often enough. Office boy journalist, traveller, stockbroker, politician. I was still young when I became a fairly well-known man. In the meantime, I had not seen nor heard anything of my brother, except that he had left the village when my stepfather died. In Vienna, some years ago, I became intimate with Lola Rochelle, the woman you know as the Princess Petrovska. She was a dancer then, and had hosts of admirers among the young men about town. As a matter of plain fact, I believe she was employed by the Russian government for its own purposes, but of that I was never certain. Anyway, she entangled me, and I believe she really had an affection for me. It was during that time that I was full enough to write her letters, letters which she kept. Eventually, I went back to the United States. I became a state senator and became involved in politics. One day, I was in my hotel in Washington when I received a visit from my brother, Harry Goldenberg. I was in a way glad to see him, although he was practically a stranger. He impressed me favourably, perhaps the fact that we were so alike physically had as much to do with it as his suave ways and gentle manners. Even at the time, I believe he was suspected by the police of being an astute swindler. Of that, of course, I was ignorant. He told me a story of a mail-order business he had established in Chicago which was doing great things, but which was hampered for lack of capital. Well, to cut the story short, I lent him five thousand dollars. A month later, he wrote to me for two thousand and got it. A few weeks after that, I read of a great fraud engineered in Central America, and there was a three-column portrait in the paper of the man at the bottom of it—my brother. That opened my eyes. When next he came to me, he was audacious enough to do it within the year, I charged him with living by fraud. He laughed in my face and admitted it. When I threatened to call in the police, he merely shrugged his shoulders and asked what I thought of a flaming headline in the press. Brother of Senator Grell held for big frauds. I could see it all just as he painted it. My political career was very dear to me just then. Such a thing would have killed it. I knew if I exposed him he was capable of carrying out his threat. However, I told him to get out of the place before I threw him out of a window. He could see I was losing my temper, and took a little pistol from his pocket, a derringer. I have a number of letters which you sent to a lady in Vienna, he said. I know many newspapers which would offer me a good price for him. I think it was perhaps fortunate for me that he held the pistol, or I might have done something I should afterwards have regretted. He flung a letter face upwards on the table. It was one of those I had written to Lola Rochelle. If he had the rest of the correspondence, and he swore that he had, it would have been deadly in the hands of an unscrupulous political opponent. As you know, electioneering in the state is rather different from what it is here. I was full enough to pay him money on his promise to suppress them. He would not sell them outright. That was the beginning. After that I never had a secure moment unless I was away on an exploring expedition. The moment I reappeared in civilization my brother would seek me out. He was cunning enough to press me only to the verge of endurance. He could judge exactly how much I would stand. At last, however, I resolved not to yield another penny to his extortions. I cut loose from all my affairs in the United States, and came to England. I thought I could fight him when I had reduced the stakes. I found after all that I had increased them, for I met Eileen, Lady Eileen Meredith. He paused. Neither of his two heroes said anything. An injudicious remark might break the thread of his thoughts. When I became engaged to her, Gral resumed, I knew that it would not be long before Goldenberg would see his chance. I set to work to find Lola and discovered her as the Princess Petroska. Then for the first time I learned that she had married Goldenberg, but she admitted that any affection she held for him had long since faded. They had parted a few weeks after the marriage, which they both seemed to regard somewhat cynically, and she had resumed her first husband's name. She admitted that she had helped him to blackmail me, but apparently she herself had handled little enough of the loot. She was vicious enough about it. I gave her a check, and induced her to come to London. I had it in mind to stop this blackmail before I was married. As I expected, Goldenberg was not long in sending profit. He descended on me ravenously. I told him that I would pay him ten thousand pounds if he would put all the letters he possessed in my hands, but that I would not otherwise buy his silence. He could see that I was an earnest and asked for time to consider. I gave him till the night before my wedding. I said nothing of the Princess Petroska. I knew that they would meet. One cannot be too scrupulous in dealing with a scoundrel, and she had her instructions to steal the letters from him if necessary, while pretending that she was only anxious to join forces with him in looting me. But all her efforts went for nothing. He recognized the value of her cooperation in the circumstances, but would give her no hint of the place where he had concealed the letters. Time drew on. You will know enough of her to recognize Lola as a clever, resolute woman. She made up her mind to accompany Goldenberg to his appointment with me as a last resort. It was to keep that appointment that I left Ralph Fairfield at the club the night before the wedding—the night of the murder. He breathed heavily. Thornton picked up a piece of paper and crumbled it nervously between his lean hands. Foyle, eager and alert, was leaning forward, anxious not to miss a word. A great deal of what had been obscure was being cleared up, but so far nothing that Gral had said but could be interpreted as a motive, and a singularly strong one, which might in other circumstances weave a hangman's rope about his own neck. You did not want anyone to know that you were absent from the club, remarked Foyle. Why? That was merely a matter of precaution. I wanted my interview with Goldenberg to be secret. I had given Goldenberg a note which would ensure his being shown to my study, and I was purposely a bit late for the appointment. I wanted to give the Princess Petrovska all the opportunities possible, but when I reached there, it was clear to me that she had failed. He had not brought the letters with him. I got rid of the woman, and Goldenberg and I quarrelled. Then it was that I killed him. And what of the other woman? asked the superintendent. What other woman? The veiled woman, who was shown up to you by Ivan. There was no other woman, said Gral, his lips tightening. I have told you as much as I intend to. Just as you like, I believe you have told the truth up to a point, Mr. Gral. It is fair to assume that a blackmailer of Goldenberg's calibre would have taken precautions lest you should fail to comply with his demands. Doesn't it appear a fair assumption that he might have taken steps to arrange the presence of the person most interested next to yourself? He probably never mentioned that he had done so until it was too late for you to stop her. I mean Lady Eileen Meredith. The table crashed to the floor as Gral, the last remnants of his self-restraint gone, leapt to his feet. So Hillary thought and sprang between the two men. Foil also had risen, and though his face was impassive, the blue eyes were sparkling, and his fists were clenched. You liar, raved Gral, how dare you bring her name into it? This excitement will not advance matters, said foil placidly. Sit down for a little, Mr. Gral, you cannot prevent the inevitable. The tense muscles of the prisoner relaxed, and a shivering fit shook him from head to foot. He could see the blow that he had striven to avert falling while he stood impotent. He had taken every risk, made every sacrifice man could make to turn it aside. Now he had been told that he had failed. It was not easy to admit defeat. His debonair courage had gone. So Hillary thought and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. My dear Mr. Gral, he said, I don't want to use the ordinary cant about duty and all the rest of it. We may sympathize with you. Personally, I admire the attitude you have taken, though perhaps I shouldn't say it. But our own feelings do not matter the toss of a button. Nothing you can do or say will swerve us from what we judge to be the interests of justice. Let me alone for a little while, answered Gral dully. I want to think. They sent him back to the detention-room, where, with the constable seated opposite to him, he was to spend the night. Foyle rested one arm on the mantelpiece and kicked the fire viciously into a blaze. Ours is an ungrateful business, Sir Hillary, he grumbled, but I've never come across a man who put so many difficulties in the way of being saved from the gallows as Mr. Robert Gral. Thornton took a long breath that was almost as sigh. Poor chap, he said reflectively. Poor chap! And then, after an interval, poor girl, couldn't you have dropped a hint, Foyle? The introduction of sentiment into business was a folly that Helden Foyle seldom permitted himself. With a shrug, he pulled himself together. He shook his head. We've got to be more certain yet. I don't tell him too much, for my idea may prove to be wrong. You must remember that it was undoubtedly Eileen Meredith's fingerprints on the dagger. At present it is only surmise of mine how they got there. Finding the prints on her blotting-pad, which I showed you, corresponded with those on the dagger you gave me, was one of the biggest surprises of my life, but we may clear it up now. Said Thornton, well, we shall have to look sharp. A thought struck Foyle. He stood rigid as a statue for a moment, and then slapped his knee with sudden energy. By God, I believe I've got it, he exclaimed, and jumped for the telephone. Put me through to the yard. Hello, I want Mr. Grant. That you, Grant, about the Grosvenor Garden's case, tell me. Might the fingerprints on the dagger have been caused by someone withdrawing it and replacing it after the murder had been committed? Would the second handling have obliterated first prints? Blurred them, I see. But if the person who first handled the dagger wore gloves? Thanks. That's what I wanted to know. He replaced the receiver and turned triumphantly on Thornton. That bears out my idea, Sir Hillary. Will you excuse me while I see if bolts on the premises? Without waiting for a reply, he darted from the room. The assistant commissioner's brow puckered, and he thoughtfully replaced the upset furniture. By the time you'd finished, Foyle had returned. Just caught him, he said. I've sent him to collect all the many confined to mix and fresh inquiries. I'm a little bewildered, confessed Thornton, jingling some money in his trousers' pockets, and turning blankly upon the superintendent. Do you think you'll be able to do it to bring this crime home to the Princess Petrovska? I think I can, replied the superintendent. I was a blind ass not to see it earlier. Lola's alibi, which is proved to be false if what Grail and Abramovich say is true, helped to blind me. I was thrown off, too, by the fingerprints on the blotting pad, which corresponded to those on the dagger, and also to those on the typewritten warning which Ivan sent me. The only plausible motive for Grail's actions, if he was not guilty himself, and that we are fairly certain of, was his desire to shield someone else. There could be only one person for him who was willing to make such a sacrifice, Lady Eileen Meredith. Yes, I understand that, but the fingerprints on the warning. They puzzled me for a while, but that was made clear when I talked to Ivan. He had typed it on the blank half-sheet of a letter given to him by Grail. That letter, it is only an assumption of mine, was one that had been written to Grail by Lady Eileen. That clears that point. Still, I don't see how you have anything against Lola more than you had before. There is this. The weak link in the chain of evidence against Lady Eileen Meredith was the lack of motive, that was why I did not have her arrested. Immediately I found that it was her fingerprints upon the dagger. The strongest point against the princess is the motive. She was married to Goldenberg, but was not on the best of terms with him. She was bought by Grail to play the part of Delilah to the Blackmailer. My theory is this. Bear in mind that it is only a theory at the moment. Grail, for some reason, left her alone with Goldenberg in his study. There was a quarrel and she stabbed him. It must have been all over in a few seconds and there was no outcry. You will remember that the body was found on a couch in a recess and you may have noted that curtains could be drawn across to shield it from the rest of the room. Petrovska may have drawn the curtains and slipped away before Grail returned. She is a woman of nerve and would at once set about manufacturing an alibi. All this is very ingenious foil, remarked Thornton, but I don't know that it sounds altogether convincing to me. It is pure surmise, Sir Hillary. Its chief merit is that it fits the facts. Of course Lady Eileen may be the murderess after all. I am only working out an alternative. To carry it on a bit further, when Lady Eileen came Ivan showed her up to the room. No one answered his knock. She went in and shut the door after her. It is my idea that there was no one in there when she discovered the dead man. She was dumbfounded at first and probably the body being in the shade did not permit her to see the face clearly. She placed her hand on the hilt of the dagger intending to withdraw it, but could not bring herself to use the necessary force. Why didn't she call out, demanded Thornton? It seems to me. There is no accounting for actions arising out of sudden emotions. Lady Eileen Meredith is as extraordinary a woman in her way as the Princess Petrovska in hers. She had found a man murdered in her lover's study and she may have had a shrewd idea of the reason why she was summoned there. You follow me? Probably as she stood there hesitating what to do, Grel returned. I think it likely that he stood by the door, took in the situation quietly and stole away with the impression that she had killed Goldenberg. If she was bending over the dead man that was what he might naturally think. It is likely that he would make up his mind in an instant. To him, the fact that she had raised no outcry would be significant of her guilt. She, let us suppose, stole away, having made no attempt to examine the body closely and not daring to summon anyone for fear that Grel should prove to be the murderer. He watched her go, already determined to destroy the scent by taking the blame on his own shoulders. By the time she reached her own home, reflection had shown her that there was one possible chance that Grel might not be guilty. She rang up the St. German's club and asked for him. Fairfield answered, declaring that his friend was in the club but busy, too busy to talk to the girl he was to marry next day, mark you. It is idle to suppose that she did not appreciate the excuse as a flimsy one, one manufactured, perhaps for the purpose of an alibi. She must have gone to bed filled with foreboding. All this is hypothesis. I am supposing that she never closely inspected the features of the dead man. The next morning she is informed that Grel was the victim. At once the lie that Fairfield told her assumed a new aspect. She denounced him as the murderer. She dared not say that she was the first to discover the body, for that would have meant revealing that she knew he was being blackmailed. Then the Princess Petrovska paid her a visit and told her that Grel was not dead but in hiding. There was nothing for it, in default of any explanation, but to revert to the thought that he was the murderer. She went to extreme lengths to help him even to forgery. She believes him guilty still. He believes her guilty. But Petrovska objected Thornton. I was coming to that. She is a clever woman. When Grel got in touch with her the following day she may have had many reasons for assisting him. She most likely had a shrewed idea of the situation and resolved to profit by it to avert suspicion. While Grel was suspected she would be safe but it may have occurred to her that if we laid our hands on him and he told us anything we might get on her track. Suppose that to be so it is not difficult to see why she should take a prominent part in assisting him. She would still have a certain amount of money for he paid her to come to England and she, as we know, would stand at nothing. It all sounds very interesting, commented the assistant commissioner, but it looks to me as though it may be a tough proposition to get evidence bearing it out. Foil pulled out his watch. My idea may all tumble to pieces as soon as a test is applied. I can't pretend to be infallible, but we can try. I am going back to Scotland Yard now, sir. It is ten o'clock. I expect to be at it all night. Are you coming back? No, I don't think I can be of any assistance to you. I shall be glad if your theory does come out all right this time. The alternative suspicions are horrible. Good night, Mr. Foil. End of Chapter 52 Chapter 53 of the Grel Mystery This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Christine Blashford The Grel Mystery by Frank Froust Chapter 53 With his mind revolving the strength and weakness of his theory held in Foil return to Scotland Yard, he paused for a moment at the door of the night inspector's room. Anything for me slack, he asked? Has Mr. Bolt come in? Ah, there you are, Bolt! Come down to my room. He led the way down the green corridor, the divisional inspector following. Well, asked the superintendent sharply as he seated himself in the office. I have seen the manager, a hall-porter, and a chambermaid at the palatial, sir. They repeat what they said in their statements before. The princess left the hotel at about ten o'clock. No one can fix the time precisely, but it was certainly not before ten. She made up her mind very suddenly, the manager tells me. Foil was rummaging with some papers. Thanks very much, Bolt. Stand by in case I want you. Tell slack if he hears from Mr. Green to ask him to leave things and come up to me. He concentrated himself on the neat bundle of documents in front of him, and gave his mind with complete detachment to the study of several of them. The investigation had narrowed itself. Whoever was guilty was in his hands. The choice lay between Robert Greil, Lady Eileen Meredith, and the Princess Petrovska. The reconstruction of the crime for the benefit of the assistant commissioner, Foil had purposely made provisional, but he was becoming more than ever convinced in his own mind that, in spite of appearances, Lola was the person at the bottom of the matter. She had left the palatial about ten. If, he argued, she had left Grovener Gardens immediately after the murder, it would have been possible for her to get to the palatial by that time and to immediately make arrangements to leave. But for all that his intuition told him he was right, he could see no way of fixing the guilt on her. He placed the dossier back in a drawer and, lighting a cigar, paced up and down the room, puffing furiously. Half an hour after midnight, Greene came in. Yes, it's worth trying, so Lila inquised Foil allowed. What is, sir? asked the chief inspector, stopping with his hand on the door handle. Ah, Greene! I was just thinking allowed. Everything all right in Barkley Square? Everything quiet, sir. Well, things have been happening since I last saw you. I want your opinion. Sit down and listen to this. Greene selected a comfortable armchair by the desk, while the superintendent went over his interview with Greil. The chief inspector made no comments until the story was finished. Then he sat in silent thought for a while. I've got faith in your idea, sir, he admitted at last. It's likely to be right is anything, but I am doubtful if we shall be able to get any admission from the princess. One never knows, retorted Foil. She's not under arrest yet, only detained. We're entitled to ask her questions to see if she can clear herself, but our best chance is to take her off her guard. We might go along and wake her out of her sleep now and chance it. The princess Petrovska had been allotted a couch in the matron's room of Malchester Row police station, partly to spare her the ignominy of a cell, partly to ensure that she should be under constant supervision. Her sleep was troubled and she woke with a start when the matron roused her. You must rest at once. Some gentlemen are waiting to see you. Waiting to see me? Who are they? She asked. Her nerves were still quivering, but her voice was steady and her face composed. The matron had received her instructions. I don't know who they are, she replied, in a tone that did not invite further questioning. Lola, for all her eye and will, found her mind dealing with all sorts of possibilities as she dressed herself mechanically. It was not for nothing that Foil had chosen that hour for his visit. The sudden summons at such an hour, amid unusual surroundings and the speculation as to what it would be for, had upset the woman's balance. She was taken by the matron into the same room where Grel had been questioned an hour before. Foil and Green sat at the table and, to her imagination, there was something of judges in their attitude. A chair had been placed at the other side of the table, facing them, and the lights were so arranged that while her face would be fully illuminated, theirs would remain in the shadow. "'Sit down, will you?' said Foil, suavely, when the matron had gone, closing the door behind her. We're sorry to trouble you at this hour, but matters of urgency have arisen. She strove to read their faces as she seated herself, but the light baffled her. I am quite at your disposal, Mr. Foil," she said, hiding her uneasiness under an appearance of flippancy. What do you want?" The superintendent balanced a pen between his fingers. Mr. Green has already explained that you are not under arrest, he said, in a quiet, cold voice. We are detaining you. Whether you will be the subject of a grave charge depends upon your answers to the questions we shall put to you. You must clearly understand, however, that you are not bound to answer." That sounds serious, she laughed. Go on, Mr. Foil, put your questions. Very well. Do you still deny that you visited Mr. Grail's house on the night that the murder took place? I think it fair to tell you that we have had statements both from Ivan Abramovich and Mr. Grail that you were there. He eyed her sternly. She made an expressive gesture with her white hands and her rings sparkled in the electric light. I'll not dispute it in the circumstances. You went there with Harry Goldenberg, your husband, in connection with a scheme of blackmail he had conceived. You were to get certain letters from him for Mr. Grail if you could. She bowed. You are correct, as usual. Mr. Grail left the room for some reason, and during his absence you had an altercation with Goldenberg. Once lend a hand resting on the table opened and clenched, she contemplated her fingernails absently. Oh, no, she said blandly, we were always on the most amicable terms. Foil leaned over the table, his face set and stern, and gripped her tightly by the wrist. Do you realise he demanded, and his voice was fierce, almost theatrical in its intensity, that you left your fingerprints on the hilt of the dagger with which you killed that man, indisputable evidence that will convict you? She shuddered away from him, but his hand-grip bruised the flesh of her wrist as he held her more tightly. He had timed his denunciation well. The strain she had put on herself to meet the situation snapped with the sudden shock. For a brief second she lost her head, she struggled wildly to release herself. His blue eyes, a light with apparent passion blazed into hers as though he could read her soul. I never left fingerprints, she exclaimed wildly. I wore gloves! Oh, my God! The superintendent's hand opened. The storm of passion on his face died down. The woman, now with a full realization of what her panic had done, was staring at him in an ecstasy of terror. Green was writing furiously. It was Foil who broke the stillness that followed. That will do, I think, he said, in an ordinary tone of voice as they resuming a dropped conversation. Have you got that down, Green? Mrs. Goldenberg, he gave her her real name, you will be charged with the willful murder of your husband. It is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be taken down in writing and used as evidence against you. A hysterical laugh came from the woman's lips. She flung her hands above her head and went down in a heap, while shriek after shriek of wild uncanny laughter echoed in the room. End of Chapter 53 Chapter 54 of The Grail Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. The Grail Mystery by Frank Froust, Chapter 54 The blaze of electric lights under their opal shades in Helden-Foyle's office became dim before the growing of the dawn. The superintendent, a cigar between his lips, was working methodically over half a dozen piles of papers. At the other side of the table Green puffed furiously at an old briar as he compiled from the documents Foyle handed him a fresh list of witnesses and their statements to be submitted to the treasury solicitors. All night the two men had toiled without consciousness of fatigue. Their jigsaw puzzle was at last writing itself. The fragments of the picture had begun to shape clearly. Their efforts had at last been justified. That alone would be their reward. The trial would show little of the labor that the case had cost, only the result. The hard labor of many scores of men would never be handled outside the walls of Scotland Yard. They had nothing to do with the guilt or innocence of the Princess Petrovska. When the case was handed over to the treasury it would be entirely straightened out and it would be for them to present the simple issue to the judge and jury at the Old Bailey. Foyle flung away the remnant of his cigar and drew out his watch. It was nine o'clock. Sir Hillary Thornton, who had heard of the woman's confession by telephone, might be expected at any moment. That ought to do green, said the superintendent, as he strung tape round the discarded bundles. We'll have the lady brought up at the afternoon sitting of the court. That'll give us time to talk it over with the people from the treasury. Yes, what is it? A man had tapped and opened the door, before he could reply a slim figure pushed by him. Green rose to his feet and hastily pushed his pipe into his pocket. Foyle raised his eyebrows and stood up more slowly. Lady Eileen Meredith confronted them with wild eyes and pallid face. She swayed a trifle and the chief inspector with a quick movement placed his arm round her waist and helped her to a chair. You are not well, Lady Eileen, said Foyle, slipping to her side. Shall I do something? Send for a doctor. She waved a slim hand in an impatient negative. I shall be all right in a minute, she gasped. Her throat worked. I wanted to see you, Mr. Foyle. I wanted to tell you— to tell you! Her voice trailed away in piteous indecision. Held and Foyle whispered a few words to Green who nodded and passed out. The superintendent took a small decanter from a cupboard, poured something into a glass, and added some water. Drink this, he said sympathetically. You will feel better afterwards. That's right. Now, you wanted to tell me something? A little curler returned to the girl's pale cheeks. Her hands opened and shut convulsively. The paper this morning, she exclaimed incoherently. It said—it said— Foyle rubbed his chin. It said that we had detained a man in Sussex, he said, encouragingly. She pulled herself together a little, but her whole form was trembling. It was Mr. Grel, she asked, eagerly. He inclined his head in a scent. Yes, it was Mr. Grel. Her face dropped to her hands and her frame shook, but when she raised her head she was dry-eyed. The emotion that possessed her was too deep for tears. She gazed in a kind of stupor at the immobile face of the detective. You have made a ghastly mistake, she said, and her voice was level and dull. Mr. Grel had nothing to do with the murder. I killed that man. I have come here today to give myself up. A twinkle of amusement shot into the blue eyes of Helden Foyle. The girl, oblivious to all, saved the misery that enrapt her, noticed nothing of his amusement, but his next words aroused her. That's curious, he said slowly. Very curious. You are the third person to confess to the murder. Really, I don't believe you can all be guilty. She stared at him in dumb amazement. Her tortured mind was slow to accept a new idea. The third, she echoed mechanically, yes, the third. The others are Mr. Robert Grel and the woman you know as the Princess Petrovska, who, in our police jargon, would be described as alias Lola Rochelle, alias Lola Goldenberg. He smiled down at her as she turned her bewildered face towards him. So, you see, there is no great need to alarm yourself. The mystery is all but cleared up. If you will permit me, my dear young lady, I should like to congratulate you. But—but— She struggled for words. Foyle seated himself and picking up a pen beat a regular tattoo on his blotting-pad. He went on unheeding the girl's interruption. I won't deny that if you had told me you killed Harry Goldenberg a day or two ago, I might have believed you and it might have made things awkward. But there is now no question of that. We know now that it was neither you nor Mr. Grel. If you had told us the real facts at first, so far as you were concerned, it would have simplified matters. However, there is no reason why you shouldn't do so now. The warm blood had suffused her cheeks. She had risen from her seat, unable at first to comprehend the full meaning of it all. I cannot understand, she exclaimed. You will presently, now, if you don't mind, sit down quietly and tell me in your own way exactly what happened on the night this man was killed. Take your own time. I shall not interrupt. A lurking fear at the back of the girl's mind that he was trying by some subtle means to entrap her into an admission that would implicate Grel disappeared. He dropped his pen. She searched the square face but could see nothing behind the mask of smiling good nature. Her own curiosity was a light, but she sternly suppressed it. You know about the letter, she asked, the letter I got from Goldenberg. He shook his head. Assume that I know nothing, begin at the beginning. Well, that was the beginning. I did not know it was from Goldenberg then, for it was unsigned, and both the address and the note itself were in typewriting. It was delivered by an express messenger. It said that the writer had something of importance affecting my future happiness to say to me, and that I could learn what it was by calling at Mr. Grel's house about ten. The writer advised me to keep my visit as secret as possible. Ah! What time did you get the note? I am not quite sure. It was about half-past nine or quarter to ten. Very neatly timed to prevent you making inquiries beforehand. Go on. I was perhaps a little frightened, and the note peaked my curiosity. The quickest way to learn what was wrong seemed to me to follow the writer's instructions. I went to Gravener Gardens, where I was apparently expected, for a manservant let me in, and took me to Mr. Grel's study. I walked in by myself, not permitting him to announce me. The room was in semi-darkness, but I could make her to figure on a couch at the other end of the room. I walked over to it. The face was in shadow, and not until I was quite close could I see the stain on the shirt front. It took me a few moments to realize that the man was dead. Then I wanted to scream, to call out for help, but I could not. It was all too terrible, horrible, like a ghastly dream. Gradually my wits and my senses returned to me. It came into my mind like a flash that the letter I had received hinted at blackmail. I could not see the dead man's face. Her voice died away, and she looked a little hesitatingly at the superintendent. He nodded encouragingly. Don't be afraid, Lady Eileen. You had found a dead man in Mr. Grel's house, a man whom you suspected of blackmailing your fiancee. You not unnaturally thought that he had been killed by Mr. Grel. Yes, she was speaking in a lower key now. I feared that Mr. Grel, in an excess of passion, had killed him. What was I to think? She made a gesture of helplessness with her hands. My brain was in a whirl, but I seemed to see things clearly enough. I dared not raise an alarm, for I recognized that my evidence, as far as it went, would be deadly against the man I loved. I laid my hand on the dagger to withdraw it, but at that moment I heard the door behind me open and close quickly. I turned, but not sharply enough to see who the intruder was. Then the idea came to me that I must get quietly out of the place. So far as I knew, I was the only person who could guess that Mr. Grel had been blackmailed, and so supply a motive for the crime. I slipped downstairs and went home. You will understand my state of mind. At about eleven o'clock, I thought of a possible chance of speaking to Mr. Grel. I rang up his club. Sir Al Fairfield answered. He assured me that Mr. Grel had been there all the evening, but was too busy to speak to me. I was unspeakably relieved. Then, in the morning, he, Sir Al Fairfield, came to see me. I partly guessed his mission, but the full shock came when he told me that it was Mr. Grel who was murdered. I think I must have been mad at the time. I said nothing about my own discovery. If Mr. Grel had been blackmailed, I did not want any details to come out. Besides, it seemed obvious to me that Fairfield had said Grel was at the club in order to shield himself. She flushed slightly. I knew Sir Ralph loved me. I thought he was guilty and— and denounced him. I continued to believe that until the Princess Petrovska came to me with a note from Mr. Grel bidding me trust her. I gave her my jewels, and she told me he could communicate with me by cipher. I returned to my first idea that he had killed Goldenberg. The Princess told me the murdered man's name, rather than submit to blackmail. I determined to do all I could to help him, for, murderer or not, I loved him. I loved him. You know how our attempt to communicate by cipher failed. A day or two ago he sent me a note, a mysterious note, saying we were both in danger. I could not understand that part of it, but it was clear he wanted money. I could not get it, except by putting my father's name to a check. You know all about that. I took a taxi cab, and arranged to meet him at Putney. You went to the general post office before that, into posed foil. Yes, I wanted to order a motor-car to meet us at Kingston. I thought it safer to do it from a public call-office, so as to leave as little trace as possible. I picked Mr. Growl up at Putney, and gave him the money. Neither of us referred directly to the murder during the journey. He told me that he was making for his place in Sussex, and should there make a plan for getting out of the country. He argued that the less I knew of the details, the better. A reasonable feeling under the circumstances, murmured foil, and then with a smile. Your fingerprints on the dagger have been partly responsible for a lot of bother, Lady Eileen, if you had followed my advice at first, but it's no use harping on that. You have believed Mr. Growl to be the murderer, I suppose, and made your own confession to shield him. I don't know that I oughtn't to congratulate you both, for he has certainly made enormous sacrifices and taken enormous risks to shield you. To shield me? Her astonishment was palpable. To shield you? He had at least as much reason, if you'll forgive me saying so, to believe you guilty, as you had to think he was a murderer. It was he, if my guess is correct, who opened the door while you were stooping over the murdered man. He must have jumped to the conclusion that you had, at that moment, killed the man, and took his own way of diverting suspicion from you. That is the only explanation that appears plausible to me. A new light of happiness was in her grey eyes, and she smiled. The direct common sense of the detective had brought home to her the motive for the portion of the mystery that, until that moment, had perplexed her. Robert Growl had laid down everything for her sake, and she had never thought, never dreamed. The voice of foil, apparently distant and far away, broke in on her thoughts. I have sent for Mr. Growl. He will be here shortly. There is still some light that he may be disposed to throw on the affair, now. Meanwhile, if you do not object, I should like to have the statement you have just made put in writing. I will have a shorthand writer in, and place this room at your disposal." She murmured some words of assent, and he disappeared. In a few minutes he returned with one of the junior men of this CID, who carried a reporter's notebook in one hand, and a pencil in the other. Heldon Foil strolled away to Sir Hillary Thornton's room. The assistant commissioner was just hanging up his overcoat. He turned quickly and held out his hand to the superintendent. Congratulations, Foil. I hear it's all plain sailing now. Come and tell me all about it." End of Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five of The Growl Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford The Growl Mystery by Frank Froust Chapter Fifty-Five For ten minutes the two heads of the detective service of London were in conference. Then there was an interruption. The door was pulled open without any preliminary knock, and Chief Inspector Green strode swiftly in, with Robert Gralet his heels. Both men were plainly stirred by some suppressed excitement. Green laid a note down in front of Foil. Petrovska has killed herself, he exclaimed. The matron found her poisoned in her cell. A minute or so after I reached Malchester Row, there was poison in one of her rings. She left this letter addressed to you. Ah! there was no betrayal of astonishment or any other emotion in the superintendent's tone. He fingered the letter carelessly. Won't you sit down, Mr. Growl? No doubt you'll excuse us for a moment. Sit down, Green." He tore open the letter and glanced over the neat, delicate handwriting. Thornton was leaning eagerly across the table. A confession, he asked. Yes, a confession, he replied. Shall I read it aloud? His eyes rested for an instant on Robert Growl. You may care to hear it, he added. Go on, said Thornton. Foil spread the sheets on the table in front of him, and began to read in a steady, expressionless tone. Held in Foil, Esquire, Superintendent, C.I.D., New Scotland Yard, S.W. Sir, it would be futile, after what happened this morning, to dispute any longer the correctness of the conclusions you have come to. I killed Harry Goldenberg, and there is no need for any count about repentance. He deserved all he got. As for myself, I was fool enough to step into a trap, and there is only one way out. I ought to have beaten you, but as I failed, it may interest you to know the bare facts. Goldenberg was, as you guessed, my husband, though it was long since we had lived together. Before I met him, however, I had become acquainted with Mr. Growl. I think it was in Vienna. I was on the stage there, and had a circle of admirers, of whom he became one. Whether you believe it or not, I assure you, on the word of a dying woman, there was nothing harmful in our intimacy. But letters passed, and his I kept. He disappeared out of my life after a while, and ultimately I met Goldenberg. We were both living on our wits. I, of course, could not fail to be struck by his astonishing likeness to Mr. Growl, and he told me eventually of their relationship. There is no use beating about the bush. Other people than Growl had written to me in the old days, and I had my own methods of forcing them to keep me silent. In plain words, a great part of my living was by blackmail, but I naturally acted very delicately. Harry Goldenberg wormed his way into my confidence, and it occurred to me that such a man would be an invaluable ally. We worked together for a while, I forgot to say we had been married, and I entrusted him with all the letters I had, including Growl's. Even the keenest woman will be a fool sometimes. You will guess what happened. He saw no need to share his plunder with me, and he left me. There was no open quarrel, but I determined that some day I would get even. But on the few occasions we met afterwards I preserved a friendly attitude. I even helped him in certain affairs. Then there came the time when Mr. Growl sought me out, and paid me to attempt to recover his letters. I jumped at the chance for, apart from the money, it seemed a fine opportunity to score off Goldenberg. I hadn't much difficulty in getting in touch with him when he reached London. He thought, and I encouraged the thought, that like himself I had been attracted here by the prospect of bleeding Growl on the eve of his marriage. I proposed a business partnership, and he, probably laughing in his sleeve, agreed. He had no intention of paying me my share, but he thought I might be useful in case the threat of publishing the letters might not be enough. But I never got the letters, although I used every means that occurred to me. I even suggested that he should entrust them to me, so that I might try to extort money by their means from Lady Eileen Meredith. He would have none of it. I changed my ground, and arranged to accompany him on what was to be the final decisive interview with Growl on his wedding eve. I said little during the preliminary talk. Both men were firm. Goldenberg declared that he would not give up the letters entirely. Growl was equally determined not to pay unless they were given to him. When I at length broke into the conversation, I asked Growl for the letters I had written to him. I wanted to get him out of the room. He must have understood my look, for he at once said he had burnt them, but would make sure. He left the room. As soon as he was gone, I played my final card with Goldenberg. I knew that the time had gone by for finesse. I told him that unless he gave up the letters, I would suggest to Growl that he should declare them forgeries, and that I would bear him out. I think even Goldenberg was taken aback, for the revelation that I was playing double came as a shock to him. He laughed at me at first, but I could see that he had lost his temper. Then he swore at me for a Jezebel, and half rose as though he would strike me, but I was first. There was a dagger on the mantelpiece. For a moment I saw red. When I was again capable of thought, I saw Goldenberg lying on the couch, motionless, and I knew what I had done. I struggled to get a grip on myself. At any moment Growl might return. I could not be sure of what he might do, and my whole idea was to save myself at any cost. Goldenberg had fallen back on the couch. I had taken two steps to the door when there was a sound outside. I drew back behind a curtain, expecting Growl. Instead of that, a woman came in. She was heavily veiled, and though I did not know her then, I was positive it was Lady Eileen Meredith, for Goldenberg had hinted at some such dramatic surprise if Growl did not come to terms. I saw her stoop over the murdered man, and then Growl opened the door. He stared for a second, and then closed the door again, just as Lady Eileen looked up. To him it must have appeared that she had killed the man. I expected her to scream, but she did nothing of the sort. She went out closing the door softly. I followed her within a minute or so, for I began to have an idea how things might be turned to my advantage. I went straight back to my hotel, and made arrangements to secure a sort of alibi. But I wanted to know how things were going. I had told Growl that if it became necessary to write me undercover, he might do so at the post-restaurant, Folkstone. There it was I heard before I returned to London. He declared that he had killed Goldenberg, a statement I had the best of reasons for knowing was false. But it left me with an easier mind. I had no wish that he should be questioned by the police, for that might have given rise to questions as to why I was at the house and how I left. That was why I helped him by every means in my power. I think now it would have been perfectly easy for me to have disappeared without raising more than a fleeting suspicion in any one's mind. But we cannot foresee everything. And I believed that my safety lay in keeping Growl at liberty. What he thought of my motives for helping him, I do not know. He may have believed them to be gratitude or something else. Anyway, he trusted me, and to make sure, I more than once hinted that I had an idea that Lady Eileen Meredith was the guilty person. It was I who supplied funds for the most part, and it was only when my resources threatened to give out that we tried other methods. When I left for Liverpool, I was nearly at the bottom of my purse. The arrangement with Mr Growl was that I should remain in hiding there until such time as he could obtain money to enable us to get out of the country. Then I was to join him. I got a wire from him at last, fixing Dalehurst Grange, and knowing that the stations would be watched, I determined to motor down. This explanation should make the things clear you do not already know. LP. Heldonfoyle finished reading, and there was a moment's silence, broken at last by a gasp from Growl. It was she, then, not—not— Not Lady Eileen Meredith, interrupted Foil, but do you confirm what she says there, Mr Growl? Growl reached out and took the paper with a hand that shook. He scanned it quickly, and handed it back to the superintendent. She is writing everything she says about me, he admitted. I did think—God forgive me—that my own eyes were right. I believed that Eileen had killed that man. That it was influenced me in everything I did. Till this moment I had no idea. He wheeled almost angrily on green. Why didn't you say why you brought me here? The chief inspector shrugged his shoulders. My instructions were to bring you here, not to give explanations. I thought it best that you should learn all there was to know at your leisure, interjected Foil. Of course, we knew nothing of this, he tapped the confession as he spoke, before you came in. Sir Hilary Thornton smoothed his moustache. It has been an unpleasant business for all of us, he said, obeyingly, and particularly for you, Mr Growl. I can scarcely apologise for the trouble you have been caused for, frankly, you have brought it all on yourself. Though unofficially, I may say that I have never known a man behave with greater courage than you have in this matter. I am afraid that some of the things your friends, your associates have done, will have to be answered for, but anything consistent with our duty will be done for them. Perhaps Mr Foil will tell us the story of the case now. You are at least entitled to that. End of Chapter 55 Chapter 56 of The Growl Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. The Growl Mystery by Frank Froust, Chapter 56 A deprecating smile came to the superintendent's lips. Robert Growl was studying him curiously. He recognised that he owed much to the blue-eyed square-faced detective. Yes, I think I am at least entitled to that, he echoed. Foil gave a shrug. As you like, gentlemen, you once complained, Sir Hilary, that I talked like a detective out of a book. This kind of thing makes me feel like one, except that, in this case, I cannot claim much credit. I only used common sense and perseverance. Let us have it, said Growl. He was beginning to be his own masterful self. Very well. It has all been a matter of organisation. You will remember that, in dealing with an intricate case, no man is at his best working alone. However able or brilliant a detective is, he cannot systematically bring off successful coups single-handed, outside a novel. He is a wheel in a machine. Or perhaps a better way to put it would be to say he is a unit in an army. He is almost helpless alone. There are many people who believe that a detective's work is a kind of mental sleight of hand. By some means he picks up a trivial clue which inevitably leads, by some magical process, to the solution of the mystery. I do not say that deductions are not helpful, but they are not all. A great writer once compared the science of detection to a game of cards, and the comparison is very accurate. A good player can judge, with reasonable certainty, the cards in the hands of each of his opponents, but he can never be absolutely certain, especially when he is unaquainted with his opponent's methods of play. Detection can never be reduced to a mathematical certainty until you level human nature, so that every person in the same set of circumstances will act in exactly the same way. Like doctors, we have to diagnose from circumstances, and even the greatest doctors are wrong at times. Specialist knowledge has often to be called in. When this case commenced, specialist knowledge had to be enlisted to fix our facts, and the one general difficulty which arose, as always, was that we did not know which facts might prove important. As an instance, I may say that the fingerprints on the dagger were wholly misleading, and might have brought about a miscarriage of justice. It was necessary that we should collect every fact we could about the murder, whether great or small. That was one phase for the investigation where organization was necessary. A man working alone would have taken months, perhaps years, in this preliminary work. Then luck favoured us. Our records, collected of course by organization, contained a portrait of a man strikingly like you, he nodded to Grell, and a comparison of fingerprints told us that the dead man was not you, but Harry Goldenberg. Previously, the time of the murder had been fixed by Professor Harding, as between ten and twelve. It was our business to find out who had been with Harry Goldenberg at that time. Among those persons was the guilty one. I can't see how that helped you at all, said Grell, his brows bent. In this way, and as a negative test, the alibi is a common place of the criminal courts, every person on whom clues might ultimately rest would be eliminated from the investigation, if it could be proved beyond doubt that they were elsewhere at the time. You must remember that we had not only to find the murderer, but to produce evidence that would satisfy a jury that we were right. But we worked, first of all, from such main facts as we had. You were missing. Ivan was missing. A mysterious veiled woman was missing. There was the pearl necklace that you had bought as a wedding present for Lady Eileen. There was the strange dagger used in the murder. There was the miniature of Lola on the dead man. These were the chief heads. There were scores of minor things to be dealt with. The matter was complicated, too, by the dead man's clothes. In the pockets there were your personal belongings, a natural but erroneous assumption was that they were your clothes. There is not much scope for individuality in evening dress. I confess I was misled and puzzled at first, but a little thought afforded the explanation, and in fact it would have been cleared up automatically in any event by the examination of the garments. Now, subtlety may be an admirable thing, but it can be overdone. I have never believed that, because a certain thing seems obvious, it is necessarily wrong, it was reasonably certain that one, or all of the missing persons, had knowledge of what had happened. It was extremely probable that one of them was guilty. Our starting point was to find them. That was where organization came in. The miniature helped me to bluff Sir Ralph Fairfield into an admission that it was the portrait of Lola of Vienna, and I purposely showed it to some newspaper men on a pretext. One of them commented on the likeness to the Princess Petrovska, who was staying at the Hotel Palatial, and I at once telephoned to the hotel, and discovered that she was supposed to have left at ten on the evening of the murder. A reference to the St. Petersburg police gave us a few more facts about her. She became a possibility as the veiled visitor. The fingerprints on the dagger, although we should have adopted a different method had we known what we now know, helped us to narrow the investigation, for they, apparently, and actually by luck, settled the innocence of several people who might have been suspected. Lady Eileen Meredith came to me with a story that seemed to implicate Sir Ralph Fairfield. There seemed just a possibility that she was right, for I could conceive jealousy might be a motive, though, of course, there was so far nothing to explain why the master of the house and his valet should take to flight. I took Sir Ralph's fingerprints by a ruse, and to me that seemed fairly satisfactory proof that he was not the man. Of course, I was then presuming that the fingerprints were those of the murderer. Then I received information that Ivan, and a man my informant took for Goldenburg, had been seen at Victoria Station on the night of the murder. I managed to find Ivan, and, by a threat, got a partly formed opinion confirmed. He knew that the murdered man was not Grell. I took from him the pearls that were to have formed a wedding present and let him go after taking his fingerprints. My idea was to have him watched, for I felt confident that he was in touch with his master, whom I believed to be the murderer. But it was not enough to follow one line. We used the fact of the striking similarity of Grell and Goldenburg to advertise for the former under the name of the latter. The mere fact of throwing the description broadcast was calculated to make any attempt to escape more difficult. Meanwhile, we were making inquiries about everyone concerned in the case by cooperation of foreign police forces, and particularly with the help of Pinkerton's agency in the United States. It was all organization, you see, the individual counted for little. The first attempt to communicate with Fairfield failed, not through the working of any miracle on our part, but by patient watching. I stole a note from Fairfield, which gave us something to act upon in the East End. Remember, the immediate object of our search was Robert Grell, not necessarily for the murderer. Do you follow? I think I do, answered Grell. You wanted at least an explanation from me. Precisely. Well, on top of that, we got a tight-written letter informing us of the kidnapping of Waverly. That letter was important, for its contents showed that we were up against people who were absolutely reckless. We were able to trace, too, a tight-writing machine as having been sold recently to a man named Israel in Grave Street. There were fingerprints on the letter, and they corresponded to those on the dagger. As a matter of fact, I recently found out that the letter had been written on paper given by you. You had torn a half-sheet from an old letter, and I can only presume it was one that had been written to you by Lady Eileen Meredith, for they were her fingerprints. We paid a surprise visit to Grave Street, and although we were unable to lay our hands on any one of much importance to the investigation, we hit on the cipher, with which it was intended to communicate with your friends. Now, we had already, as you know, taken every precaution to stop supplies. It was obvious that sooner or later money would be wanted, and we rigorously watched the persons who were likely to be applied to. Up to this point, circumstantial evidence pointed clearly to you. He nodded towards Grell, as the murderer. Something of the sort happened, for Lola went to Lady Eileen, and we were able to lay hands on her. But we failed to get her identified as the veiled woman who had visited the house in Gravener Gardens. I will confess that, at that time, I never had any suspicion that she was the actual murderous. We had no adequate excuse for detaining her, after she handed the jewels over, with an explanation endorsed by Lady Eileen Meredith. I had taken her fingerprints, and they did not agree. It was palpable that the attempt to baffle us was being shrewdly organised. I tried a different way of getting information, an attack, so to speak, by the back door. I enlisted the help of a criminal. He was acting more or less blindly, but by his help we stopped the burglary affair that was planned. In the pocket of one of the men we arrested, we discovered two advertisements, worded so as to convey a cipher key without exciting suspicion. We had them inserted, and naturally arranged to keep an eye on the office, for the word to-morrow suggested one to be inserted the following day. There is always wisdom in gaining the confidence of those concerned in a case if you can. I was trying hard to establish friendly relations with Lady Eileen and Sir Ralph Fairfield. Each was difficult to handle, but with Sir Ralph I succeeded to some extent. I used him to try and learn something from her. She realised that the cipher was known, and went to the newspaper office to try and stop the insertion of the advertisement that might enable us to find Grell. Of course she failed, and we got a message which had been handed in by Petrovska, one of our men followed her. We deciphered the message, and it enabled us to discover your hiding-place on the river, but the business was muddled and you got away. We found the sheath of the knife used in the murder among other belongings you left behind. By the way, we understand that that dagger had belonged to Harry Goldenberg. How came it to be lying about your room? Grell shook his head. That is a mistake. The dagger was mine. It is possible that he had a similar one. Yes, that is possible. But in the event the point does not matter much, what was more important was that we had driven you out of a secure hiding-place. Meanwhile, Pinkerton's had been hard at work on the other side of the Atlantic, and many episodes of your private life were minutely examined. Their detectives, it was, too, who had discovered that Goldenberg and Petrovska had in some way been associated with you, what they found out pointed to blackmail. Here appeared an adequate motive for you to murder Goldenberg. Grell tapped impatiently on the table, but did not interrupt. Heldenfoyle went on. We could not blind ourselves to the fact that you were not the type of man who would commit an ordinary crime and distress of temptation, but homicide is in a class by itself. You might have committed murder. Indeed, there was the strongest possible assumption that you had done so. You will observe that there was nothing miraculous in what we did. One step led to another in natural sequence. On the barge we got the letter that led to the tracing of Ivan at the gambling-house in Smike Street. We knew your finances were cramped. We were, as opportunity offered, limiting your helpers, so that we might force you to show yourself. That is what happened. You went to Sir Ralph Fairfield and succeeded in dodging our men, so far. It was Fairfield's servant who gave you away. He came to Scotland Yard, and in my absence was taken away by Sir Ralph. When I returned, I arranged to get Sir Ralph out of his chambers for a time, sufficient to allow me a talk with his servant. I then bluffed some idea of your mission out of Sir Ralph. I found you had been refused money. You had already applied once to Lady Eileen Meredith for money. There seemed a chance that in your desperate state you might do so again. I went to Barkley Square. Lady Eileen had gone out. I got into her sitting-room on pretext of waiting for her. On the fire were fragments of a note from you, and I was able to make clear several words. That made me determined to examine her desk. I found a checkbook, but the used counter-foils were not in her handwriting, nor did the amounts, and the people to whom they were payable, seem those that would be found in a personal checkbook of hers. I searched the blotting-pad, and was able to make out the words Burley and Two Hundred Pounds. The assumption I drew from that was startling enough, but it was still more startling to discover on the blotting-pad a fingerprint which, as far as my recollection went, corresponded with those on the dagger. Up to that moment the possibility that Lady Eileen might be the guilty person had not occurred to me, but now a rearrangement of the circumstances, apart from the fingerprint, began to throw a new light on the matter. It would explain much if you, Mr. Grel, were shielding Lady Eileen. I could think of no motive, however, and resolve to hold the matter over for the time being. Even if I had good cause for my suspicion, it was still essential to find you. You obviously held the key to the mystery. We found out that you had met Lady Eileen and driven to Kingston, not by shadowing, for our man failed there, but by getting hold of the cabman who drove you. With the aid of the provincial police we were able to trace you to Dalehurst Grange. I feared that you might be on the alert for any step taken by Mr. Green, and so acted by myself in getting into the house. Your manner, when I confronted you, impressed me favourably. It was not that of a guilty man, but I could not let an opinion bias me, for, in spite of everything, you might still have been guilty. There was a great possibility that you were an accessory. One thing struck me. Your walk was uncommonly like that of Harry Goldenberg. Now, people may be uncommonly like each other in face and figure and be unrelated, but I have noticed often that little peculiarities of gait run through a family. I had thought you might be a relative of Goldenberg's, but not till that moment did I become certain of it. You will remember that I put some questions that might have seemed offensive. I wanted you to lose your temper. It was conceivable that you might blurt out something. I found it very difficult to place Petrovska. While you were asleep, I thought the matter over and formed a hypothesis. I put several questions to you later, and found that a woman had visited your house with Goldenberg. That was Lola Petrovska. Now, if she was not the veiled woman who came later, who was? For the sake of my theory, I put her as Lady Eileen. Very well. Lola and Goldenberg had visited you together, but she had assisted you since the murder, and she was hardly likely to do that if she was unfriendly terms with the Blackmailer and knew you had killed him. So it came to my mind that you might have used her in an attempt to get the compromising letters, and then it occurred as a remote possibility that she might, after all, be the guilty person, but to assume that it was necessary to explain away the fingerprints, for they were not hers. All this led to the supposition that the dagger had been handled by someone after the crime. That person must have been Lady Eileen, therefore she must have been the veiled woman, you see? But this was supposition which a single fresh fact would destroy. I held on to you, and Lola walked into our trap. An interview with Ivan cleared up some of the vague points in the story, and confirmed my theory. You will understand that I was ready to drop it the moment it failed to fit the facts. Indeed, to make assurance more sure, I sent a story out to the papers, which I felt sure would convey to Lady Eileen Meredith that you were in great peril, and which, if she was guilty, might induce her to confess to save you. It had an effect rather different to that which I intended. Your clumsy attempts to take the guilt on yourself made me more sure than ever of your innocence. This morning we laid a trap for Lola. She was suddenly aroused out of her sleep, and I surprised her into what amounted to an admission of guilt. Grel rose from his chair with extended hand. I rather believe that I have made a fool of myself, he said. You have done a great deal more than you adopt credit for. I cannot thank you now, but later. I suppose I am at liberty now. I must see Lady Eileen at once. You will have to give evidence at the inquest, said Thornton. That is all. The step this woman has taken will save us all a great deal of trouble. Of course, what Mr. Foyle has told you is entirely confidential. Of course. Lady Eileen is here if you would care to see her now, said Foyle. Will you come with me? Grel followed the superintendent along the corridor. At the door of his own room, Helden Foyle stopped and knocked. Here you are, he said. Robert Grel opened the door.