"Funny thing you should speak about that," commented Ike, glancing casually about to make certain that no one was within earshot. "I hear that there's piles of stuff in that house, and there's only a butler and a man named Lomont, who was Grell's secretary, living there now to look after things. It would be easy to do a bust there."

Fred's pulses jumped a little faster as he toyed with his glass. He knew something of Red Ike's methods, and felt certain that some proposal was coming. He could see the gratitude of Foyle taking some tangible form if he were able to bring this off. He had no scruples. Even if Ike suspected treachery after the event—well, he could look after himself.

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head doubtfully. "It isn't like a lonely suburban street."

Ike grinned.

"I'm not a mug, am I? What do you say to walking in the front door, opening it with a key, and with the keys of the rest of the house in my 'sky'? All I want is a straight man to keep doggo."

"Criminy! Have you got the twirls?" he gasped. "Where did you get 'em?"

"Never mind where they came from. I've got 'em. That's enough. More than that, I've got a lay-out of the house all marked out on paper, with every bit of stuff marked out where it ought to be. It's as easy as falling off a log."

"Am I in it?" demanded Freddy.

"Why should I be telling you if you wasn't? You keep doggo outside if you like."

More drinks were ordered, and Freddy came to business.

"What do I get?"

Ike let his chin rest meditatively on his slim fingers.

"Let's see. I cut in for a third, and I shall do all the work. I'll give you a quarter of that third. You won't have anything to do, except give me the office if anything goes wrong."

"'Struth!" Freddy was more hurt than indignant. "You aren't going to Jew me down like that. Who else is in it?"

"Never mind who else is in it. I give you first chance, as a pal. You can take it or leave it."

"Right, I'm on," agreed Freddy.



CHAPTER XXV

The compact between Heldon Foyle and Sir Ralph Fairfield had begun to bear fruit. For three days an advertisement had appeared in the personal column of the Daily Wire—

"Will R. G. communicate with R. F. Very anxious."

Much thought had gone to the wording of the line. If Grell or any of his companions noticed it, Foyle felt certain that in some way or other an attempt would be made to get in touch with the baronet. He was fairly confident that the missing man needed money. He would probably not question how Fairfield knew that he was alive. If he rose to the bait there would be a catch of some sort. Whether Grell was the murderer or not, he held the key to the heart of the mystery. The superintendent emphasised this in a talk with Fairfield.

"It's a fair ruse. We're pretty certain he's hiding somewhere in London, and it's a big field unless we've got a starting-point. That's our trouble—finding a starting-point. In detective stories the hero always hits on it unerringly at once. There was one yarn in which the scratches on the back of a watch gave the clue to the temperament and history of its possessor. Now, that watch might have been borrowed or bought second-hand, or lost and restored at some time, and the marks made by any one but its owner. That kind of subtlety is all right in print, but in real life it would put you on a false track in nineteen out of twenty cases. In ninety cases out of a hundred the obvious solution is the right one. In an investigation there may be coincidences of circumstantial evidence pointing in the wrong direction. But when you get first one coincidence, then a second, a third, and a fourth, you can be fairly sure you're on the right track. You don't add proof together. You multiply it. See here."

He drew a piece of paper towards him and rapidly scribbled upon it.

One coincidence ..... = 0 Two coincidences .... = 2 Three coincidences ... = 6 Four coincidences ... = 24 Five coincidences ... = 120

"That's the kind of thing in terms of arithmetic. Now look at the parts in relation to each other. Grell leaves the club and gets you to lie about his absence. Coincidence number one. A man astonishingly like him is murdered in his study a short time afterwards. Coincidence number two. He is apparently dressed in Grell's clothes and has Grell's belongings in his pockets. Coincidence number three. Both Grell and his valet, Ivan Abramovitch, disappear. Coincidence number four. Ivan is found with the pearl necklace on him. Coincidence number five. Grell writes you a note, which I stole from you. Coincidence number six. You follow me? I could go on with other proofs. Grell must know who committed this murder, and if we get hold of him we shall know."

"I see the point," confessed Fairfield. "All the same, I don't believe, even if he knows as you say, that he had a hand in it. This may be the hundreth case, you know, and there may be some satisfactory explanation of his actions."

"I quite agree. Even cumulative proof may be destroyed. I can guess what you are half thinking. You believe that I've fastened my suspicions on Grell, and that I'm determined to go through with it right or wrong. That's a common mistake people fall into in regard to police functions. In fact, it doesn't matter a bit to a police official whether he gets a conviction or not—unless, of course, he neglects an important piece of proof through gross carelessness. All he has to do is to solve a problem and to place his answer before a magistrate, and then a judge and jury to decide whether he's right or wrong. No one but a fool would attempt to bolster up a wrong answer. In this case, too, you must remember that there are finger-prints. They cannot lie. If we get the right man—Grell or any one else—there will be no question of doubt."

Fairfield tapped a cigarette on the back of his left hand and rose.

"Well, even if you do draw Grell with that advertisement, I doubt if you'll get anything from him if he doesn't want to talk. I know the man, and he's hard to beat out of any decision that he makes up his mind to, as hard"—he bowed smilingly to the detective—"as you would be."

"Thank you. If it were a question of Grell against Foyle I might have to go under. But it isn't. Behind me is the C.I.D., behind that the whole force, behind that the Home Secretary, and behind him the State. So you see the odds are on my side."

A jerky buzz at the telephone behind the superintendent's desk interrupted any reply that Fairfield might have made. With a muttered "Good-day" the baronet moved across the carpeted floor out of the room. As he closed the door Foyle put the receiver to his ear.

"Hello! Hello!... Yes, this is Foyle speaking. Oh yes, I know.... No, you'd better not tell me over the telephone. You can't come here. Somebody who knows you might see you.... Is it important?... All right. You'd better come to Lyon's tea-place in the Strand—the one nearest Trafalgar Square. I'll get Mr. Green to go along and have a talk with you. Good-bye."

Rubbing his hands together thoughtfully, the superintendent sent for Green. In a few moments the big figure of the chief inspector loomed in the doorway.

"Dutch Fred thinks he's got hold of something," opened Foyle abruptly. "I've told him to meet you at Lyon's in the Strand. I think he's all right, but don't let him have any money until you've tested his yarn."

"Very good, sir," said Green. "I'll look into it."

As he left Foyle bent over his desk and, with the concentration that was one of his distinguishing traits, busied himself in a series of reports on a coining raid in Kensington, sent up to him by those concerned for his perusal. He had a theory that the efficiency of the battalion of detectives under him was not lessened by making his men tell him exactly how they were performing their work, both verbally and in writing. "You may have brains, you may have intuition, you may have courage, but you'll never make a good detective without system," he sometimes told young officers when they joined the staff of the C.I.D. There were things, of course, that could not be put in writing, but Foyle never invited his subordinates to act against the law. Such things have to be done at a man's own discretion without official sanction.

It was less than an hour when the chief inspector returned, portentously grave.

"Well?" demanded Foyle.

"The real goods," said Green, who was obviously feeling pleased with himself. "Your long shot has come off. They're falling short of money, for they've put Red Ike up to break into Grell's house and steal all the stuff in sight. Ike has asked Fred to give him a hand."

A low whistle came from Foyle's lips. Why hadn't he thought of this? Discreetly done, with the help of a confederate—and apparently Grell had no lack of confederates—it would get over the money difficulty quite simply.

"Sit down, Green. Let's hear all about it," he said, diving into his pocket for the inevitable cigar.

"It's all fixed up. Ike walks into the place with Grell's keys at eight o'clock to-night, while Freddy keeps watch outside——"

"And some one keeps an eye on Freddy, if I'm any judge. Go on. Who put Ike up to it?"

"He won't say. He's as tight as a drum about all that, according to Freddy. When we arrest him we must get something out of him."

"I don't know," said Foyle slowly. "Ike's a queer bird. Dutch Fred will need to look after himself if ever he knows who gave the game away. Well now, let's fix up things. Is any one keeping an eye on the place for Ike?"

"Freddy's supposed to be there."

"And I guess that they've found out that Lomont and Wills will be out of the house to-night. You might find out for sure, Green. 'Phone Lomont, but don't stop 'em if they've made arrangements. It would simplify matters if we could get one or two of our own men in the house. We daren't do that, though."

"Why not? If Freddy's keeping watch——"

"That's all right. It isn't Freddy I'm afraid of. There'll be some one else there. The people who put this game up are not going to trust a couple of crooks entirely. I think I'll take a stroll out that way myself about seven o'clock. We'd better have the place surrounded. I'll send for a section map of that part."

A clerk brought the map, and Foyle's fingers described a wide, irregular circle, now and again halting at one spot where he wished a man to be placed.

"That ought to do," said the superintendent when Green had finished taking a note of the various points. "Pick out some good men, though I don't suppose they will have much to do. It's only a measure of precaution. You'd better be on hand yourself about half-past seven. If all goes well we shall get bigger game than Ike."



CHAPTER XXVI

Within the invisible cordon that Foyle had drawn about Grell's house in Grosvenor Gardens, Dutch Fred loitered, his keen, ferret eyes wandering alertly over passers-by. Misgivings had assailed him during a vigil that had lasted several hours. It was all very well to be "in with" the police; but suppose their plans miscarried? Suppose Red Ike and his unknown friends got to know that the "double cross" was being put on them? Fred fingered a heavy knuckle-duster in his pocket nervously. Man to man, he was not afraid of Ike, but there were his friends.

The tall straight figure of Heldon Foyle, with coat collar turned high up, had passed him once without sign of recognition and vanished in the enveloping shadow of the slight fog that confused the night. Yet, though the superintendent had apparently paid no heed, he was entirely alert, and he had not failed to observe Freddy. What he wanted was to see who else was in the street. He returned by a detour to an hotel in the Buckingham Palace Road, outside which a big motor-car was at rest, with a fairly complete mental picture of three people who might be possible spies among those he had passed.

The thickening fog was both an advantage and a disadvantage to the detectives—an advantage because it would force any person watching on behalf of Grell and his associates to keep within a reasonable distance of the house if Ike was not to be lost sight of, and a disadvantage because it would afford increased facilities for any one to slip away.

To Green, seated in the motor-car, Foyle commented on this fact.

"You'll have to have your breakdown rather closer to the house than we thought," he said. "Give Ike a good chance inside. You've got the duplicate key all right?"

"That's safe enough," answered Green, tapping his pocket. "If I don't see you after we've bagged him I'd better charge him with housebreaking, I suppose?"

"Certainly. Now get along. It's a quarter to eight."

The car moved silently forward and took the corner of Grosvenor Gardens. Thirty paces beyond the spot where Dutch Freddy was lighting a cigarette it came to a stop, while the chauffeur, dropping to the ground, rummaged fiercely with the interior. Green leaned back in the shadow, his eyes fixed on the steps leading to Grell's house. There was a sufficient air of plausibility about the whole accident to impress any one but the most suspicious.

Heldon Foyle had entered the hotel, for he did not care to run the risk of frightening his quarry by showing himself again until it was necessary. But he kept a vigilant eye on the clock. Promptly as the hands touched ten minutes past eight he made his way once more to the corner of Grosvenor Gardens. A labourer, with corduroy trousers tied about the knee and a grimy, spotted blue handkerchief about his neck, approached him with unlit pipe and a request for a match.

"Red Ike's gone along," he said, as Foyle supplied him. "Nobody else has been hanging round except Freddy. The constable on the beat passed along just after Ike."

The match, was dropped in the gutter, and the superintendent, his face set grimly, moved slowly on. The labourer crossed to the other side of the road and followed. Foyle was quite near the house when Green walked up, accompanied by his chauffeur, and made quickly up the steps. Shadowy in the fog, the superintendent could see the dim outline of a constable's uniform. The man was peering anxiously at the doorway through which Green had gone.

"Well, my man," said Foyle sharply, "are you on duty here? Who are those people who have just gone in there?"

The policeman gave a barely perceptible start, and then took a pace forward.

"I—I believe they have no right there. I must go and see," he said, but was brought up with a jerk as Foyle's hand clutched his wrist. The labourer who had wanted a light was coming across the road at a run and, though a little puzzled, had seized the constable's other hand.

"No, you don't," said Foyle peremptorily. "When you masquerade as a policeman again, my friend, make sure you have a letter of the right division on your collar. This district is B, not M. I am a police officer, and I shall arrest you on a charge of being concerned in an attempt at housebreaking. You'd better not make a fuss. Come on, Smithers. Let's get him into the car."

The prisoner made no resistance. He seemed dazed. Once in the car, the detective took the precaution to handcuff him to his subordinate—right wrist to the officer's left wrist—for he did not know how long the wait for Green might be, and it seemed wisest not to run risks. Detectives rarely handcuff their prisoners unless travelling. It is conspicuous and unnecessary.

"Now we're more comfortable," said Foyle, sinking into the cushions of the car. "If you want to give any explanation before I formally charge you, you may. Only don't forget that anything you say may be used in evidence against you."

"Is it an offence to go to a fancy-dress ball in a police officer's uniform?" asked the prisoner. "Because if it is, I shall plead guilty."

"You can make that defence if you like—if you think it will be believed," retorted Foyle. "It will be better for every one if you tell the truth, though."

The man lapsed into a surly, sullen silence, and the superintendent could feel that he was glaring at him in the darkness of the closed car. The other detective looked through the window.

"Here comes Mr. Green, sir."

Arm in arm and in amicable converse with Ike, the chief detective-inspector was approaching the car, with the chauffeur on the other side. Ike, it appeared, had been run to earth in the dining-room, and had surrendered at discretion. He had all the philosophy of the habitual thief who knows when the game is up. He grinned a little when he saw the handcuffed policeman in the car.

"Why, it's you, Mr. Smith! Didn't you think I could be trusted for fair does over the stuff inside? You've fallen into it this time, and no blooming error. Where's Fred?"

"Fred who?" queried Foyle. "Is there some one else in this job?"

But Red Ike was too old a bird to be deceived. Instinct, as well as reason, told him that he had been betrayed, and the absence of Fred but lent fuel to his suspicions.

"Aw—don't come it, Mr. Foyle," he said disgustedly, and added a picturesque flow of language, elaborating the steps he would take to get even with Dutch Fred when he had the opportunity. Not one of the detectives interrupted him. The more he talked the better, for he might drop something of value. Not until they drew up at the police station did his eloquence desert him. The superintendent descended first and gave a few instructions, while the soi-disant constable was taken to the cells. Ike found himself escorted upstairs into the C.I.D. office. Only Heldon Foyle and Green remained with him.

"Sit down and make yourself comfortable," said the superintendent cheerfully. "We want to have a little talk with you, Ike. Would you like a drink? Here, have a cigar."

Red Ike's swift wits were on the alert. Never before had he known this kind of hospitality to be tendered in a police station to a man arrested red-handed. And although suspicious, he was nevertheless flattered. All criminals, whether at the top or bottom of their profession, are beset by vanity.

"A little out of your usual line this," went on Foyle, watching his man intently. "As neat a job as ever was spoiled by accident. Now you know, as well as I do, that we can't force you to talk. But it'll help us a bit if you tell us who you got those keys from, for instance."

The office was small and plainly furnished, and Ike stared into the fire as he sipped his whisky, with placid face. That the interview was to be the English equivalent of the third degree, he knew not. There would be no bullying, only coaxing. Foyle was in a position where consummate tact was needed if he was to extract anything from the prisoner. He dared neither threaten nor promise. However helpful Ike might be, he would still have to submit the issue of guilt and punishment to a judge and jury. Ike, unlike Dutch Fred, had no relations, and if he had it was doubtful if any promise of consideration for them would move him.

"It's no good, Mr. Foyle," said Ike. "The only man that was in this with me was Dutch Fred. You'd better go and get him, because I shall tell all about it in court. He gave me the keys."

"Don't be a fool, Ike," interposed Green.

The prisoner glanced from one to the other with cunning, twinkling eyes. He was too wary to say anything that may be used as evidence.

"I guess that it isn't bursting into the place that's put you two to work," he said. "You want to know something. If I could help you I s'pose you'd drop this case?"

Heldon Foyle shook his head resolutely.

"You know we can't do that in a case of felony. Mr. Green will put in a good word for you at the trial. That's the farthest we can go to."

Ike put down his empty glass. He believed he held the whip hand—that he had much to gain and nothing to lose by holding out for better terms. It was a false impression, though a natural one. Heldon Foyle had neither the power nor the inclination to drive a bargain that would permit Ike to go unscathed to renew his depredations on society.

"It's no good, guv'nor," said Ike. "If you want me to talk I'll do it—if you'll let me go."

"Right." Foyle rose abruptly. "We'll let it go at that, Ike. You please yourself, of course. Mr. Green, you'd better charge him now."

He had passed out of the door, and his footsteps were dying away when Ike awoke to the fact that his attempt at bluff had failed. He raised his voice. "Hi! Mr. Foyle! Don't go yet. I'll cough up what I know. Come back."



CHAPTER XXVII

A grim smile flickered under Chief Inspector Green's grey moustache as Heldon Foyle stepped briskly back into the room and closed the door. Ike met a stare of the superintendent's cold blue eyes squarely.

"You've got the bulge on me this time, guv'nor," he admitted ruefully. "I give you best. You're welcome to all I know—though that isn't much."

Now that he was near attaining his end, Foyle had to steer a delicate course. The law very rightly insists that there shall be neither threat nor promise held out to any person who is accused of a crime. From the moment a police officer has made up his mind to arrest a man, he must not directly or indirectly induce a person to say anything that might prove his guilt—and a warning of the possible consequences is insisted upon even when a statement is volunteered. Otherwise admissions or evidence so obtained are ignored, and there is trouble for the police officer who obtained them. That is one of the reasons why detective work in England demands perhaps nicer skill than in most other countries.

Green had pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and adjusted a couple of sheets of official foolscap. Foyle remained standing.

"Don't let's have any misunderstanding," he said. "We're not making any promises except that the court will know you helped us in another case. If you choose to keep quiet we can't do a thing to you."

"I know all about that," said Ike, with a little shrug of his shoulders. "You know I wouldn't squeal in an ordinary job. I'm no Dutch Freddy to give my pals away. I don't owe the chap anything who put me up to this. What do you want first?"

"Tell us all about it your own way. Where did you get the keys of the house?"

"Off that chap you raked in along of me. I was sitting in a little game of faro at a joint in the Commercial Road about a week ago, when this tough pulls me out and puts it up to me. I didn't much like it, but the chink who runs the show told me he was straight, and he offered me half——"

"You told Freddy you were only getting a third," interposed Green.

"Did I?" Ike grinned cunningly. "It must have been a slip of the tongue. Anyway, I said I'd chip in for half or nothing. He pow-wowed a bit, but at last he gave in. Funny thing about it was he wouldn't hear of keeping an eye open on the day we brought the job off. Said I must get a pal. Yet here he turns up as large as life all the time."

The prisoner had hit on a point which had puzzled Foyle for a time, but light had already flashed upon him. In the ordinary course of things, a robbery at Grosvenor Gardens by two known criminal characters would not of necessity be associated with the murder. The third man was taking no chances of being identified as an associate.

"Anyway, I took the job on, and he handed me over the twirls and a lay-out of the house. He didn't tell me who was behind him. And I didn't ask too many questions. He called himself Mr. Smith, and we met once or twice at the ——" He named a public-house in Leman Street, Whitechapel. "That's where I was to have met him to-night with the stuff. Now you know all I know."

"Not quite," said Foyle quietly. "What's the address of this gambling-joint where you first met him?"

Ike shook his head. "Oh, play the game, guv'nor. You aren't going to have that raided after what I've done for you?"

"We'll see," evaded Foyle. "Where is it?"

Reluctantly, Ike gave the address. Green held out a pen to him and pointed to the bottom of the foolscap.

"Read that through and sign it if it's all right."

The man appended a dashing signature, and with a cheerful "Good night, Mr. Foyle," was ushered by a chief detective-inspector down to the charge-room. Heldon Foyle rested his elbows on the table and remained in deep thought, immobile as a statue. He roused himself with a start as Green returned.

"Both charged," said the other laconically. "The other chap refuses to give any account of himself. Refuses even to give a name. Seems to be a Yankee. I had his finger-prints taken. There was nothing on him to identify him."

"Yankee, eh?" repeated Foyle. "So is Grell. There won't be any one in the finger-print department at this time of night. We'll go along and have a search by ourselves, I think. If we've not got him there, Pinkerton of the U. S. National Detective Agency is staying at the Cecil. We'll get him to have a look over our man and say whether he recognises him."

"Very good, sir. There's one other thing. When I searched this man I found this. I don't know if you can make anything out of it. I can't."

He handed across an envelope already torn open, addressed to "The Advertisement Dept., The Daily Wire." Within were two plain sheets of notepaper and a postal order. On one was written: "Dear Sir, please insert the enclosed advts. in the personal column of your next issue.—John Jones." On the other were two advertisements—

"R.F. You are closely watched. Don't forget 2315. Don't forget 2315. G.

"E. L27.14.5. To-morrow. B."

"Very curious," commented Foyle. "Copy them out carefully and have 'em sent to the paper. They can't do any harm. Now let's get along."

The fog hung heavy over a muffled world as they walked down Victoria Street. Green, whose wits were a trifle less supple than those of his chief when imagination was required, put a question. Foyle answered absently. The mysterious advertisements were not altogether mysterious to him. He recalled the cipher that had been found at Grave Street, and decided that there was at least room for hope in that direction. Besides, there was at least one man now in custody who knew something of the mystery, and, even if he kept his lips locked indefinitely, there was a probable chance of a new line of inquiry opening when his identity was discovered. And even if finger-prints and Pinkerton failed to resolve that, there was still the resource of the newspapers. With a photograph scattered far and wide, the odds were in favour of some one recognising its subject.

As Foyle switched on the lights in the finger-print department, Green sat down at a table and with the aid of a magnifying-glass carefully scrutinised the prints which he carried on a sheet of paper. Ranged on one side of the room were high filing cabinets divided into pigeon-holes, numbered from 1 to 1024. In them were contained hundreds of thousands of finger-prints of those known to be criminals. It was for the detectives to find if among them were any identical with those of their prisoner.

The whole science of finger-prints for police purposes resolves itself into the problem of classification. It would be an impossible task to compare myriads of records each time. The system employed was absurdly simple to put into execution. In five minutes Green had the finger-prints of the two hands classified into "loops" and "whorls" and had made a rough note.

"W.L.W.L.L. "L.W.W.L.W."

That done, the remainder was purely a question of arithmetic. Each whorl was given an arbitrary number according to its position. A whorl occurring in the first pair counts 16 in the second, the third 4, the fourth 2, and the fifth 1. Thus Green's effort became—

16—4—— 20 ————- = — —8.4—1 13

The figure one was added to both numerator and denominator, and Green at once went to the fourteenth pigeon-hole, in a row of the filing cabinet numbered 21. There, if anywhere, he would find the record that he sought. For awhile he was busy carefully looking through the collection.

"Here it is," he said at last and read: "Charles J. Condit. American. No. 9781 Habitual Convicts' Registry."

"Put 'em back," said Foyle. "We'll find his record in the Registry."

The two detectives, uncertain as to where the regular staff kept the files of the number they wanted, were some little time in searching. It was Foyle who at last reached it from a top shelf and ran his eye over it from the photograph pasted in the top left-hand corner to the meagre details given below.

"This is our man right enough," he said. "American finger-prints and photograph supplied by the New York people when he took a trip to this country five years ago. Never convicted here. It says little about him. We'll have to cable over to learn what they know."

"That gives us a chance for a remand," remarked Green.

"Exactly. And in the meantime he may tell us something. A prisoner gets plenty of time for reflection when he's on remand."



CHAPTER XXVIII

Five minutes after Big Ben had struck ten o'clock Heldon Foyle walked into his office to find Sir Ralph Fairfield striding up and down and glancing impatiently at the clock. He made no direct answer to the detective's salutation, but plunged at once into the object of his visit.

"Have you seen the Wire this morning?" he asked abruptly.

Foyle seated himself at his desk, imperturbable and unmoved.

"No," he answered, "but I know of the advertisement that brought you here. As a matter of fact, I sent it to the paper. I should have called on you if you hadn't come. Grell meant it for you, right enough."

The significance of the detective's admission that he knew of the advertisement did not immediately strike Fairfield. He unfolded a copy of the Daily Wire.

"What do you make of the infernal thing?" he demanded. "It's absolute Greek to me."

With a letter selected from the pile of correspondence on his desk unopened in his hand, Heldon Foyle swung round and faced his questioner.

"It's simply a sighting shot, Sir Ralph," he remarked quietly. "Grell credits you with intelligence enough to remember that number later. Have you any knowledge of ciphers?"

"I have an elementary idea that to unravel them you work from the most frequently recurring letter; E, isn't it?"

"That's right," said Foyle. "But there are other ciphers where that system won't work. Mind you, I don't pose as an expert. If I had a cipher to unravel, I should go to a man who had specialised in them, exactly as I should go to a doctor on a medical question. Still, the advertisement to-day isn't a cipher. It means exactly what it says."

"Thank you," said Fairfield drily. "I am now as wise as when I started."

"Sorry," murmured Foyle suavely. "You'll be wiser presently. The thing isn't complete yet. If you'll excuse me a few minutes, I'll just run through my letters, and then, if you don't mind taking a little walk, we'll go and see Lady Eileen Meredith."

Some formal reply rose to Fairfield's lips—he never knew what. The last time he had seen Eileen was fixed in his memory. Then she had practically denounced him as a murderer. Since then she had learnt that every shadow of suspicion had been cleared away from him. How would she receive him if he visited her unexpectedly with Foyle? Why did Foyle wish him to go? Perhaps, after all, there was nothing in it. He told himself fiercely that there was no reason why the meeting should embarrass him. Some day, sooner or later, they would have to meet. Why not now? He was hungry for a sight of her, and yet he was as nervous as a child at the thought of going to her.

The slamming of a drawer and the soft click of a key in the lock told that Foyle had finished. He picked up a copy of the Daily Wire and his hat and gloves.

"Now, Sir Ralph," he said briskly, and together they descended the narrow flight of stone steps which leads to one of Scotland Yard's back doors. The detective was apparently in a talkative mood, and Fairfield got no chance to ask the questions that were filling his mind. Spite of himself he became interested in the flow of anecdotes which came from his companion's lips. There were few corners of the world, civilised or uncivilised, where the superintendent had not been in the course of his career. He had the gift of dramatic and humorous story-telling. He spoke of adventures in Buenos Ayres, in South Africa, Russia, the United States, and a dozen other countries, of knife-thrusts and revolver shots, of sand-bagging and bludgeoning, without any suspicion of vaunting himself. The baronet made some comment.

"No," said Foyle. "Take it all round, a detective's life is more monotonous than exciting. It's taken me thirty years to collect the experiences I'm telling you about. Things always happen unexpectedly. Some of my narrowest squeaks have taken place in England, in the West End. Why, I was nearly shot in one of the best hotels by an officer sent over from the United States to take charge of a man I had arrested. He was the sheriff of some small town and had a bit of a reputation as a gun-man, and had come over with the district attorney to escort the chap back. They did themselves well while they were here waiting to catch a boat back. One morning I strolled into the hotel, and who should run into me but the attorney with a face the colour of white paper.

"'That you, chief?' he gasps. 'For God's sake don't go upstairs. ——'s on the landing, blazing drunk and with his gun out. He's a dead shot.'

"Well, I could see that a Wild West sheriff was out of place in a decent hotel, so up I went. He had me covered like a flash, and I yelled out to him not to shoot.

"'Hello, chief,' he says. 'That's all right. Come right up. I won't do a thing. Just wait till I've plugged that cur of an attorney and we'll go and have a drink.'

"By this time I was up level with him. I daren't risk trying to get the revolver from him, for he was a quick shot, so I pushed my arm through his.

"'I haven't got much time, sheriff,' says I. 'Let's go and have a drink first, and you settle up with him afterwards.'

"'That's a bet,' he says, and I led him down to the bar. I persuaded him to try a new drink of my own invention—its chief component was soda-water—and followed it up with strong hot coffee. Meanwhile I managed to get the gun away, on the pretext of admiring it. He was reluctant at first, telling me I could have it for keeps after he had finished that cur of an attorney. But I got it, and he was fairly sober by the time I left him.

"Then there was a sequel. I had warned the sheriff and the attorney, who had made up their differences, that the man they had got was a slippery customer to handle. However, they got him in the boat all right. When they got to New York I had a cable from the captain—a friend of mine. He said the prisoner had not only cleared off the ship by himself, but had carried away the hand-baggage of his escort."

This reminiscence had brought them to Berkeley Square. Fairfield felt his heart thumping quickly although his face was impassive as the door was opened in response to Foyle's ring. She might be out; she might refuse to see them. Neither of the two alternatives happened. Within three minutes Eileen had descended to them in the drawing-room.

She stopped, a graceful figure in black, by the doorway, and gave a barely perceptible start as her eyes rested on the baronet. She bowed coldly.

"I did not know you were here, Sir Ralph. I understood Mr. Foyle wished to see me."

She was frigid and self-possessed. He had half expected some expression of apology for the wrong she had done him, but she entirely ignored that. But that Fairfield had himself well in hand he would have openly resented the snub inflicted on him. It was Foyle who answered.

"I brought Sir Ralph here. I thought his presence might be necessary."

She moved across the room, and sank on a couch with a petulant frown.

"Well, I suppose you have some disagreeable business to transact. Let us get it over."

The superintendent knew that he was dealing with a woman entirely on her guard. Her steady grey eyes were fixed on him closely, as though she could read his thoughts. He thought he could detect a slight twitching of the slender hands that rested idly on her lap.

"I want to know," he said slowly, "the meaning of the advertisement addressed to you by Robert Grell in this morning's Daily Wire."

He could have sworn that his shot had hit, that she flinched a little as he spoke. But if so she showed no further sign. Instead, her face was all astonishment as she replied—

"I don't quite understand. What advertisement? I know nothing about Mr. Grell since he left Grosvenor Gardens. Will you explain?"

Deliberately the superintendent took from his breast-pocket a copy of the Daily Wire, folded back at the personal column, and read:

"E. L27.14.5. To-morrow. B."

"That," he said, "is addressed to you. It is hardly worth while denying knowledge of it. It was found last night on a man arrested for attempted housebreaking at Mr. Grell's house. I ordered that it be sent to the paper, together with another intended for the eye of Sir Ralph Fairfield."

Her interest was plainly awakened.

"Then the other was for you!" she cried, turning to Fairfield. "I wondered if——"

She paused with the realisation that she had admitted what she had a moment before denied. Foyle's foot pressed heavily on the toe of the baronet to warn him not to speak.

"Yes, it was for Sir Ralph," he said. "That is why I brought him here. It is you, though, who hold the key to this mystery. We know that you would have sent your jewels to Grell, that you are in communication with his friends. You are young, Lady Eileen, and don't realise that you are playing with fire. Your silence can do your lover no good—it may do him and yourself harm. You have been visited by the Princess Petrovska, an adventuress not fit to touch the hem of your skirt. You are already involved. Take the advice of a man old enough to be your father, and confide in us."

She had risen, and her slim form towered over the seated detective. She seemed about to resent his words, but suddenly burst into a ripple of laughter.

"You would be offensive if you were not amusing, Mr. Foyle. Don't you think my help would be a little superfluous, since you know so much?" she asked with a quietness that robbed the remark of some of its bitterness. "I think you had better go now."

"I am sorry," said Foyle. "You may regret that you did not take my advice."

She herself held the door open for them to pass out. To the surprise of Fairfield, she held out her hand to him while ignoring the detective.

"Come back alone as soon as you can," she whispered. "I want to speak to you."

Foyle had apparently neither heeded nor heard. Yet, as soon as they were out of eye-shot of the house, he turned to Fairfield.

"She asked you to go back?"

"Eh?" The baronet was startled. "Yes. How did you know? Did you overhear her?"

"No, but I hoped she would when I took you there. That was the whole reason of our visit. I didn't expect to get her to say or admit anything."

Fairfield came to an abrupt halt and gripped his companion by the arm.

"You intended— For what reason? How could you know?"

"Absolute common sense, my dear sir. That's all. Absolute common sense. If you are a chess-player, you know that the man who can foretell what move his opponent is going to make usually wins. Here, let's find a quiet Piccadilly tea-shop and I'll tell you all about it."

There is no place which one may find more convenient for a quiet conversation than the London tea-shop before twelve in the morning. Over a cup of coffee in the deserted smoking-room Foyle spoke to the point.

"I did not tell you why I took you to see Lady Eileen, because I was afraid you might refuse. She has been antagonistic to you hitherto. The fact that Grell advertised you in somewhat the same manner as herself has given her the idea that, after all, you too might be trying to shield him. Naturally, she wants to be certain, in order that you may join forces. That's why I prevented you saying anything. Now, if you go back to her you may tell her that I practically forced you to accompany me. You can win her confidence, and through her we may get on the right track."

An angry flush mounted to Fairfield's temples.

"In short," he said curtly, "you want me to act as a spy on an unsuspecting girl. No, thanks. That's not in our bargain."

He was genuinely angry at the proposal. The superintendent saw that he had been too blunt, and made haste to repair his error.

"Don't be in a hurry," he protested. "The girl, as I told her, is beginning to be mixed up in a dangerous business. This is the only way to extricate her. You may help her and Grell and us by doing as I ask. Consider it coolly, and you will see it is the best thing to do."

Sir Ralph set down his cup and fingered his watch-chain. Foyle signalled the waitress, paid the bill, lit a cigar and waited.

"I'll have to think over it," said Fairfield thoughtfully. "Give me an hour or two."

"Right you are," agreed the detective heartily, and they made their way out into the street.



CHAPTER XXIX

It was with mixed feelings that Fairfield yielded at last to Foyle's arguments and returned to see Eileen Meredith. To his consent he had attached the condition that he was to be allowed to use his own judgment as to how much of the interview he should communicate to the detective, and with this Foyle had to be content.

The baronet found the girl waiting for him, her face alight with eagerness. She was in her own boudoir, luxuriously ensconced in a big arm-chair, and she smiled brightly at him—such a smile as he had not seen since before the murder. He obeyed her invitation to sit down.

"You wanted to see me alone," he said.

She nodded. "Yes, I want to know if we are allies—or enemies. I know I have treated you abominably, but I was driven half mad by the thought that Bob was dead. Now we are working together—are we not?"

He made a little gesture with his hands, helplessly as one at a loss.

"In so far as we both wish to get Grell out of his difficulty—and I wish I knew what that was—yes," he replied. "I don't believe him to be a murderer, but why does he remain in hiding? He is not the sort of man to do foolish things, and that is foolish on the face of it. He has some strong reason for being out of the way. Can you explain?"

She pulled her chair closer to him, and laid one slim hand on his.

"I cannot explain—I can only trust. He looked to us to help him. I know that he wants money, for he sent a friend to tell me. I had none, but I gave her my jewels. Detectives were watching her, and they, with the connivance of my father, took them from her. Now, you, his most intimate friend, must help him. He has given you the key to the cipher which will appear, and then, I suppose, he will tell you how to get it to him."

She had apparently taken it for granted that the baronet was with her in whole-souled devotion to her lover. His fingers beat a tattoo on his knee.

"So that advertisement was the key to a cipher? Do you know when I shall get a message?"

"I shall get one to-morrow. You—who knows?"

"Then you can tell me how to read it?"

She hesitated a moment, finger on chin. Then, animated by a quick resolve, she moved to a little inlaid desk and unlocked a drawer. She returned with a piece of paper in her hand.

"What was the number mentioned in your advertisement?"

"2315."

For a little the only sound in the room was the scratching of pencil on paper. At last she finished, and handed the result to him. He wrinkled his brows as he studied it.

THIS IS THE KEY 2315 23 152 315 VKJX KV UMG NFD

"The bottom line is the top one turned into cipher," she explained. "The middle line is the key number. In the first word you take the second letter from T, the third from H, the first from I, and so on. It is a cipher that cannot be unravelled without the key number. H becomes K once and M once."

"I see." The simplicity of it at once dawned on him. "That was what Foyle meant when he said that some ciphers could not be solved by the recurring E," he said unthinkingly.

She had risen and flung away from him in quick revulsion. One glance at her face told him what he had done.

"You spy!" There was stinging scorn in her tone. "You have talked it over with Foyle, and that man knows all. You are here to worm out what I know in order to betray your friend. Oh, don't trouble to lie,"—as he would have spoken,—"I can see your object. And I nearly fell into the trap."

The man was not without dignity, as he stood a little white but steady. "You may call me what you like," he said in a low voice. "Spy, if you will. Believe me or not, I have acted for the best, for you and for Grell. You once called me a murderer—with what justification you now know. Are you so ready to judge hastily again?"

If he had hoped to move her from her gust of passion, he quickly learned his mistake. Her lips curled in contempt, and, drawing her skirts aside as she passed him as though a touch might contaminate her, she swept to the doorway. For one instant she stood posed.

"You call yourself a spy. It is a good name. For a police spy there is no room in this house."

With that she was gone. The man had flushed under the biting contempt in her voice and words, and now stood for a little with hands tightly clenched, gazing after her. He felt that, from her point of view at least, there was some truth in her words. He was—whatever his motives—a police spy. And yet he was but concerned to clear up the horrible tangle in which his friend and the girl had become involved.

He did not know that he was watched from behind the curtains as he walked blindly into the street. Eileen, with lips firmly set and face tense, was concealed behind curtains. No sooner had he gone than she hurriedly dressed herself and ordered an electric brougham. She had come to believe that her lover's safety depended on her actions that day. Foyle knew the secret of the cipher, and Grell's advertisement told her that he intended communicating something to her by that method the next day. At all costs she must prevent him betraying himself.

Only one course occurred to her. She must go to the office of the Daily Wire and prevent his advertisement from appearing. How she was to do it she had not the slightest idea. That she left for later reflection.

The car rolled smoothly towards Fleet Street, but no inspiration came to her. She alighted at the advertisement office, with its plate glass and gilded letters, and was attended by an obsequious clerk. Outwardly calm, but with her heart beating quickly beneath her furs, she put her inquiry to a sleek-haired clerk. He was polite but firm. It was quite possible that such an advertisement as she mentioned had been sent for insertion the following day, and again it might not. In any case he was forbidden to give any information. It would be quite out of the question to stop any advertisement unless she held the receipt.

"But if the advertisement has not already been given in, can you give a note to whoever brings it?" she asked, in a flash of inspiration.

"Yes, that could be done." She tore off her glove, and with slim, nervous fingers wrote hurriedly. The sleek clerk supplied her with an envelope, and as she placed her message in it and handed it to him she felt it was a forlorn hope. There was only one other way of outwitting the detectives. Should Grell give any address in his message, she must reach him early in the morning before the police could act. A couple of questions elicited the fact that the paper would be on sale by four the next morning. That would mean another journey to Fleet Street, for the ordinary news-agents' shops would not be open at that time. The brougham turned about and began the homeward journey.

A respectably dressed working man, who had apparently been absorbed in a page of advertisements of situations vacant displayed on a slab in the window, slouched into the office, and a man bareheaded and wearing a frock-coat moved briskly forward, apparently to attend to him. Yet it was more than coincidence that they met at a deserted end of the counter.

"That was Lady Eileen Meredith," said the workman, in a quick, low voice. "What did she want?"

"She's guessed that we know the cipher," retorted the other. "She gave a letter to be handed over to whoever brings the advertisement. Here is what she says." He pulled the letter which Eileen had written five minutes before from its envelope: "'The police know the cipher. Be very cautious. R. F. is acting with them.' I'll telephone to Mr. Foyle at once. You had better stay outside."

The second man went back to the pavement and resumed his study of the advertisement board, but a close observer might have seen that his eyes wandered past it now and again to the persons inside the office. Half an hour went by. Then the frock-coated man inside took a silk hat from a peg and placed it on his head. Simultaneously a woman went out. A dozen paces behind her went the workman, and a dozen paces behind him the frock-coated man.

Heldon Foyle had selected his subordinates well for their work. Acting on the policy of leaving nothing to chance, he had taken a hint from the advertisement addressed to Eileen, and had the office watched from the time it opened. It was simple to get the manager's permission to place one man within, and to get him to direct the clerks to pass through his hands all cipher advertisements for the personal column. If the advertisement came through the post, their time would be thrown away. If it was delivered by hand, there was a chance of learning whence it had been dispatched. The intervention of Lady Eileen was an accident that could not have been foreseen. In that matter luck had played into Foyle's hands.



CHAPTER XXX

Between Berkeley Square and Scotland Yard, Fairfield consumed ten cigarettes in sharp jerky puffs. Yet he was scarcely conscious of lighting one. Indeed, as he climbed the wide flight of steps at the main entrance, it seemed as though no palpable interval of time had elapsed since he had been practically turned out of her father's house by Eileen Meredith.

Heldon Foyle put away the bundle of documents that contained the history of the case as the baronet was announced, and waved his visitor to a chair.

"Well?" he asked.

Fairfield shrugged his shoulders. "A nice mess you've got me into," he complained. "Why didn't you tell me you knew the secret of the cipher?"

The detective's face was full of ingenuous surprise as he answered—

"Didn't I? I thought I made it perfectly clear to you. I am sorry that you misunderstood. I should have made it plainer. What has gone wrong?"

Sir Ralph made an impatient gesture. "Oh, what's the use of talking nonsense? You did not tell me that you knew the cipher, and as a consequence Lady Eileen now knows that you know."

The superintendent gave no indication of the chagrin with which the news filled him. His features were perfectly expressionless. A part of his plans had failed from excess of caution. He did not need Fairfield to tell him what had happened. He could make a fairly accurate guess as to the manner in which he had been unwittingly betrayed. His thoughts turned at once to the question of what the girl would do. If he had judged her right, she would try to warn Grell. Either she knew his address or not, but it was unlikely that she did, as they were communicating in cipher. The obvious thing for her to do was to try to stop the advertisement. There was, however, little he could do. He had men on duty in Berkeley Square and in Fleet Street. He would soon hear of any new developments.

"That's a pity," he said reflectively. "It may mean a re-arrangement of our plans. And believe me, Sir Ralph, I badly regret now that I did not go into fuller details with you. What happened?"

Stumblingly, Sir Ralph recapitulated the scene at Berkeley Square, giving even the epithets by which the girl had addressed him. Foyle tapped lightly on his desk with the end of a penholder. The event had been as he thought. He looked Sir Ralph straight in the eye.

"She told you that you were a spy—that I had used you as a tool," he said sharply. "You have been hurt by her words. I don't want you to feel that you are anything but a free agent, or to do anything that you consider dishonourable. But I must know whether you are still willing to act with us, or whether you wish to stand aside."

Fairfield threw the stump of cigarette viciously into the fire.

"I am acting with you, of course," he answered sullenly, "though I wish you to ask for my help only when it is absolutely necessary. What I complain of is, that I have not been frankly treated, and that I have been placed in an invidious position with Lady Eileen. You must remember that I have feelings, and that it is not pleasant to be told one is acting as a spy, especially by—by an old friend. You know, Mr. Foyle, that I have only been wishful to serve those I have known."

There was something pathetic in his endeavour to justify his actions to himself. Foyle murmured a sympathetic, "I understand—yes, yes, I know," and then became thoughtful.

"After all," he said at last, "this does not make us so very badly off. You are openly on our side now, Sir Ralph, so there can be no fear of your again being accused of acting in an underhand manner. There is nothing more to be done at the moment. I will keep you posted as to any steps we are taking."

"Very well. Good morning, Mr. Foyle."

The baronet was gone. The superintendent resumed his perusal of documents. He felt some little compunction at what had happened. Yet it was his business to clear up the mystery, and to use what instruments came to his hand, so long as the law was not violated. There is a code of etiquette in detective work in which the first and most important rule is: "Take advantage of every chance of bringing a criminal to justice." In using Fairfield as an instrument, Foyle was merely following that code.

In a little, Foyle had finished and sent for Green. The chief inspector came with a report.

"A woman brought the advertisement to Fleet Street, sir," he said. "Blake has just telephoned up that he and Lambert are keeping her under observation. He 'phoned earlier that Lady Eileen Meredith had been there."

"Yes, I suppose so. What does the advertisement say?"

"He couldn't tell me on the 'phone. He had to hurry away to look after the woman. It is being sent up by taxicab."

"That's good. By the way, Green, keep half-a-dozen men handy, and be about yourself."

"Very good, sir. Is there anything on?"

"I don't quite know. We may have to go out in a hurry. I'll tell you after we have deciphered the advertisement."



CHAPTER XXXI

It was with an eagerness sternly suppressed that Heldon Foyle took from a messenger the note which he knew contained Grell's advertisement. Although outwardly he was the least emotional of men, he always worked at high tension in the investigation of a case. No astronomer could discover a new comet, no scientist a new element with greater delight than that which animated the square-faced detective while he was working on a case.

He drew out the sheet of paper gingerly between his finger-nails, and tested it with graphite. Eight or nine finger-prints, some blurred, some plain, appeared black against the white surface, and he gave an ejaculation of annoyance.

"The fools! I warned them to handle it carefully. Now they've been and mixed the whole lot up."

He blew down one of the half-dozen speaking tubes hanging at the side of his desk, and gave a curt order. When Green appeared he was engrossed in copying the advertisement on to a writing-pad. He laid down his pen after a while.

"That you, Green? Send this up to Grant, and ask him to have it photographed. See if he can pick out any of the prints as being in the records or bearing on the case. Somebody's been pawing this all over, and the prints are probably spoilt. It's been printed out, too, so there isn't much chance of identifying the writing. Anyhow, we'll have a look more closely at it when the finger-print people have done."

He bent once more to his desk with the copy of the cipher. He knew the key, and it was not necessary to resort to an expert. By the time the chief inspector came back he had a neatly copied translation on his pad.

"Listen to this, Green," he said.

"'E. M. Am now safe on board a barge moored below Tower Bridge, where no one will think of looking for me. Have good friends but little money, owing to action of police. Trust, little girl, you still believe in my innocence, although things seem against me. There are reasons why I should not be questioned. Shall try to embark before the mast in some outward bound vessel. Crews will not be scrutinised so sharply as passengers. There are those who will let you know my movements. Fear the police may tamper with your correspondence, but later on when hue and cry has died down will let you know all.'"

The two detectives looked at each other.

"A barge below Tower Bridge," repeated Green, with something like admiration. "That was a good shot. He might have stayed there till doomsday without our hitting on him, or any one taking any notice of him."

"I don't know," said Foyle. "A newcomer on the river would attract attention. These water-men know each other. There's only one way that I can see in which he would avoid being talked about. He is a watchman."

"You're right, sir," agreed the other emphatically. "This is a matter where Wrington of the Thames Division will be able to help us. Hope we can find him at Wapping. Shall I ring through?"

"There's no hurry for a minute or two," said Foyle. "Let's get the hang of the thing right. There's probably some hundreds of barges below Tower Bridge. It will be as well to keep a close eye on the docks and shipping offices. You see, he asserts his innocence."

"H'm," commented Green, with an intonation that meant much. "He says, too, that there are reasons why he shouldn't be questioned."

"Well, we shall see. There had better be an all-station message about the docks. Send two or three men down to Tilbury to watch outgoing boats there. We shan't need any other men from here. Wrington's staff know the river, and will get on best with them. I don't want to leave here until Blake lets us know more about the woman who left the advertisement. That gives us another possible clue."

It was some time before Wrington, the divisional detective-inspector at the head of the detective staff of the Thames Division, could be found, for like other branches of the C.I.D. he and his men did their work systematically, and usually left their office at nine o'clock only to return at six. At length, however, he was found at a wharfinger's office, where there had arisen some question of a missing case of condensed milk. Within half an hour he was at Scotland Yard.

A tall man with tired grey eyes, about the corners of which were tiny wrinkles, with a weather-beaten face and grey moustache, he aimed to look something like a riverside tradesman. There was a meekness in his manner and speech that deceived people who did not know his reputation. He spoke five languages fluently, and two more indifferently. Along the banks of the thirty-five-mile stretch of river for which he was responsible he had waged incessant warfare on thieves and receivers for thirty years, till now practically all serious crime had disappeared.

He it was who, a dozen years before, had fought hand to hand with a naked and greased river thief armed with a knife, in a swaying boat under Blackfriars Bridge; he, too, solved the mystery of a man found dead in the Thames who had been identified by a woman as her husband—a dare-devil adventurer and unscrupulous blackmailer, who was declared by a doctor and a coroner's jury to have been murdered. Step by step he had traced it all out, from the moment when a seaman on a vessel moored at one of the wharves had taken a fancy to bathe, and being unable to swim had fastened a line round his waist and jumped overboard. He had neglected to make the end on board properly fast and was swept away by the current. The rope had twirled round him, and as the body swelled became fixed. A blow on the head from the propeller of a tug completed a maze of circumstantial evidence which might have served as an excuse to most men for giving up the problem. Yet Wrington had solved it, and the record, which had never seen the light of publicity, was hidden in the archives of the service.

This was the man Foyle had now called in. He stood, with stooping shoulders, nervously twisting his shabby hat, apparently ill at ease. His nervousness dropped from him like a garment, however, when he spoke. Foyle made clear to him the purport of the excursion they were to embark on.

"Very good, sir," he said. "If you think the man you want is on the river, we will find him. I guess, as you say, he's got a job as a watchman. He's probably had to get somebody to buy a barge, for they don't give these jobs without some kind of reference."

"A reference could easily have been forged. But that doesn't matter. How soon can you get your men together?"

"An hour,—perhaps two. They're scattered all over the place. I sent out to fetch 'em before I left Wapping."

"Three or four will be enough. With Green and yourself and myself we should be able to tackle anything. Have a launch and a motor-boat at Westminster Bridge Pier in a couple of hours' time. If you can borrow them off some one, so that they don't look like police craft, so much the better."

"I can do it, sir."

"Good. In two hours' time, then."

And Heldon Foyle turned away, dismissing the subject from his mind. Green had gone upstairs to find how Grant of the Finger-print Department had progressed in his scrutiny of the finger-prints on the advertisement. He found his specialist colleague with a big enlargement of the paper on which the advertisement had been written mounted on paste-board, and propped up in front of him, side by side with an enlargement of the prints found on the dagger.

"Any luck?" asked Green.

Grant shifted his magnifying glass to another angle and grunted.

"Can't tell yet," he said irritably. "I've only just started. Go away."

"Sorry I spoke, old chap," said the other. "Don't shoot; I'm going."

Grant rested his chin on one elbow and stared sourly at the intruder.

"Great heavens!" he said. "Isn't it enough to have two of my men ill when there are four hundred prints to classify, to have three newspaper reporters and a party of American sociological researchers down on me in one day, without——"

But Green had fled to the more tranquil quarters on the first floor.

"Mr. Foyle asking for you, sir," said the clerk.

He pulled open the door of the superintendent's room. Foyle had got his hat and coat on.

"Blake's wired that the woman has taken a ticket for Liverpool," he said. "He's gone on the same train. Now that's settled, let's see if we can't hurry Wrington up."



CHAPTER XXXII

In the corner of the first-class carriage farthest away from the platform, the Princess Petrovska sat with her hands on her lap and a rug round her knees, glancing idly from under her long eyelashes at the people thronging the Euston departure platform. Her eyes rested incuriously now and again upon a couple of men who stood in conversation by a pile of luggage some distance away, but within eyeshot of the compartment.

She had some vague recollection of having seen one of the men before, and though she remained apparently languidly interested in the business of the platform, she was racking her brains to think who he was or where she had seen him. It was recently, she was certain. Suddenly she leaned forward, and her smooth brow contracted in a frown. Yes—she was nearly certain. He had an overcoat and a silk hat on now, but when she last saw him he had been a bare-headed, frock-coated clerk in the advertisement office of the Daily Wire. The frown disappeared and she dropped back. But behind the placid face an alert brain was working. Had the man followed her, or was it a mere coincidence? Was he a detective? With an effort of will she stilled the apprehension in her breast. Her confidence reasserted itself. Even if he were a detective, what had she to fear? She had merely delivered a cipher advertisement over the counter. It was unlikely that it would be read by others than the person for whom it was intended. Even if it were, there was nothing in it to incriminate her.

Her lips parted in a contemptuous smile.

"I don't believe he is a detective at all," she murmured.

All doubts on the subject, however, were set at rest as the express began to glide out of the station. As though taken unawares by its departure, the man hastily shook hands with his friend and sprinted for the train, swinging himself into the woman's compartment with a gasp of relief.

"Phew," he said. "A narrow shave that," and then, as if realising the sex of his companion, "I—I beg your pardon. I hope the carriage is not reserved. If so, I will change."

She smiled winningly at him.

"No, don't disturb yourself, I beg. It would be a pity after all the trouble you have taken—to catch the train."

Detective-Inspector Blake was not by any means dull. His immobile features gave no sign that he was half inclined to believe the woman was gibing him. "Now, what the devil does she mean by that?" he said, under his breath. He bowed in acknowledgment of her courtesy, and drawing a paper from his pocket unfolded it.

"And how is the charming Mr. Foyle?" said the Princess, speaking with a soft drawl. "I do hope he is still well."

This time Blake was taken unawares. He dropped the paper as though it were red-hot, and the woman laughed. A moment later he was ashamed of himself. She had trapped him into a tacit admission that he was a detective. A surprised denial of acquaintance with Mr. Foyle might have ended in an apology on her part for a mistake. Well, it was too late now.

"So you are a colleague of Mr. Foyle's?" she went on, and though her voice was soft there was a trace of mockery in it. "He is charmingly considerate to send you to look after me. I was desolated to think that I should have to take such a long journey by myself."

"The pleasure is mine," said Blake, falling in quickly with the atmosphere she had set. Nevertheless, he was not quite easy. He recalled the troubles that had beset Waverley, and half regretted that he had not brought his companion on the train with him.

"Smoke, if you like," she said, with a gracious wave of her hand. "I know you are dying to do so. Then we can talk. Do you know, I have long wished to have a talk with a real detective. Your work must be so fascinating."

He took a cigarette case slowly from his pocket, and dangled it in his hand. He had never before seen the Princess, but he was certain of her identity.

"Indeed," he said grimly. "I thought you had met Mr. Foyle. In fact, I believe that he afforded you some opportunity of seeing a portion of the workings of our police system. Do you smoke? May I offer you a cigarette?"

She selected one daintily.

"Thank you. But that was different. I don't think it quite nice of you to refer to it. It was all a mistake. Mr. Foyle will tell you so, if you ask him. Do detectives often make mistakes?"

Her air of refreshing innocence tickled Blake. He laughed.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "I made a mistake just now in coming on this train alone."

She laughed musically in pure amusement.

"I believe the man is afraid of me," she said, addressing the ceiling. Then more directly, "Why, what harm could a poor creature like myself do to a great stalwart man like you? I should have thought you'd greater sense."

"Common sense is my strong point," he parried.

"And therefore you are afraid," she laughed. "Come—Mr.—Mr.——"

"Smith—John Smith."

"Mr. John Smith, then. It's a good English name. I shan't do you any harm. But if you like to lose sight of me when we reach Liverpool——"

"Well?"

"It would be worth L50 to you."

He shook his head. "I am afraid, Princess, you have a very poor opinion of the London police. Besides, I told you just now that common sense was my strong point."

She shrugged her shoulders for answer. The train droned on. They had lunch together and chatted on like old friends. It was when they had returned to their own compartment, and the train was nearing Liverpool, that Blake found his cigarettes had run short. The Princess produced a daintily-jewelled enamelled case.

"Won't you try one of mine?" she asked. "That is, if you care for Egyptian."

He took one. What harm would there be in a cigarette? Yet, in half an hour's time, when the train slowed into Lime Street Station, the Princess descended to the platform alone. In his corner of the compartment Blake slumbered stertorously.



CHAPTER XXXIII

Heldon Foyle and Chief Inspector Green paced to and fro along Westminster Pier watching a couple of motor-boats as they swung across the eddies to meet them. A bitter wind had chopped the incoming tide into a quite respectable imitation of a rough sea. There were three men in each boat. Wrington at the tiller in one, Jones, his lieutenant, steering the other.

"It's going to be a cold job," commented Foyle, as he turned up his coat collar and stamped heavily on the frosty boards.

"Ay," agreed Green. Then, without moving his head: "There's that chap Jerrold of the Wire behind us. Has he got any idea of what we're on?"

Foyle wheeled sharply, and confronted a thin-faced, sallow-complexioned man with a wisp of black hair creeping from under his hat, and with sharp, penetrating, humorous eyes. Jerrold was one of the most resourceful of the "crime investigators" of Fleet Street, and, while he had often helped the police, he could be a dangerous ally at times. He started with well-affected surprise as Foyle greeted him.

"Well, I never! How are you, Mr. Foyle? And you, Mr. Green? What are you doing down here?"

"For the matter of that, what are you doing?" asked the superintendent, who had made a shrewd guess that he and his companion had been seen from the Embankment, and that Jerrold, scenting something afoot, had descended to wait an opportunity. But Jerrold was ready.

"Me?" he retorted. "Oh, I'm writing a story about Westminster Bridge. Cracks have developed in the pier. Is it safe? You know the kind of thing."

"Yes, I know," agreed Foyle, with a smile and a glance at the waiting boats. "Well, it's nice weather. Green and I are just going off with Wrington. There's some question of increasing the river staff, and we've got to go into it."

Jerrold nodded as gravely as though he quite accepted the explanation. In fact, Foyle, shrewd as he was, could not feel certain that he had. The journalist took a casual glance about the wide stretch of water, and with an unconscious gesture that had become habitual with him flung back the lock of hair that dangled over his right eyebrow.

"Got a minute to spare?" he asked. "A rather quaint thing happened at our office. You know they're excavating the foundations for a big hotel in Piccadilly? Well, on Monday a couple of burly navvies, carrying a big paper parcel, came up to the Wire office and Brashton saw them.

"'Me an' my mate 'ere,' says the spokesman, ''ave been employed on those works in Piccadilly, and we made an interesting discovery to-day. Seeing as the Wire is an enterprising paper an' pays for news, we thought as 'ow we'd come along.'

"'Always glad to pay for information if we use it,' says Brashton.

"'We'll leave it to you,' says the spokesman, undoing the parcel. 'Look at this.'

"Inside the wrappings was a battered but full-sized human skeleton. Brashton was a bit staggered, but put a few more questions to the men, and they went away. He forgot all about the skeleton till M'Gregor, the news editor, happened in. Mac's hair stood on end, and he pointed at the skeleton with a long forefinger.

"'What's that?' he demanded.

"Brashton looked up from some copy he was writing. 'That,' he said calmly. 'Oh, that's not necessarily for publication; it's just a guarantee of good faith.' And he explained.

"Mac was horror-struck. He stared at Brashton as though he had taken leave of his senses.

"'Good God, man,' he cried, 'why did you let them leave it here? It might have died of the plague or something.' And, stepping back into the corridor, he yelled for a boy. 'Take that thing away,' he ordered. 'Get rid of it. Put it in the furnace.'

"Well, they took it down and cremated it. To-day, a fine, old, crusty police sergeant rolled up to the office. He wanted to see some one, he said, about the find of a body in Piccadilly.

"Brashton received him suavely. 'Very good of you to come, sergeant,' he said. 'We're always grateful for any information about matters of interest.'

"The sergeant fidgeted with his helmet. 'That's all right, sir,' he said. 'As a matter of fact, though, I've come to you for information this time. You see, I'm a coroner's officer, and we've got to hold an inquest, but we ain't got no body to hold it on!'

"For a moment Brashton was flabbergasted, but he recovered himself almost immediately. 'I'm very sorry,' he apologised, 'but the fact is, although we had the skeleton here it has—er—been mislaid.'

"That coroner's officer," went on Jerrold gravely, "is now looking over the excavations to see if it's possible to find a few odds and ends to hold the inquest on. But I see Mr. Green's getting impatient. Don't let me keep you."

The boats had been brought up to the quay and, as the detectives stepped aboard, slipped downstream, hugging the Embankment. Foyle turned a speculative eye on the pier they had just quitted. A steam launch had just brought up, but Jerrold had vanished. The superintendent swore softly.

"So that's why he kept us talking," he said. "He suspects something, and wanted to keep us till he could send for a boat himself. We shall be a regular procession if we don't stop that." He leaned over and spoke to Green in the second boat. Immediately it slackened speed, and as the launch came alongside the chief inspector swung deftly aboard.

"Where's Mr. Jerrold?" he demanded of the man at the wheel.

"Who's he?" was the gruff response.

"Come, you know who he is well enough. He's the man who's borrowed or hired this craft, and he got on board just now. I want to speak to him. If he has ordered you to follow us, let me tell you that I am a police officer, and shall be justified in arresting you for obstructing me in the execution of my duty if you are not careful."

"Hello, Mr. Green. Threatening the skipper? What's wrong?" said the equable voice of Jerrold, emerging with cigarette between his teeth through the sliding door of the saloon.

The detective swung round upon him angrily. "This isn't the game, Mr. Jerrold. We can't have you following us like this."

The journalist gave a shrug. "Really? Do you object to me having a blow on the river? Because I'm going on, in any case. I can't help it if you're going the same way."

Green was helpless, and he knew it. Although he raged inwardly, he knew that it would be unwise to arrest the journalist, though such a course might be justified. Apart from the bad feeling such procedure might create, there was the difficulty of establishing a case without disclosing the object of their journey. It was a dilemma where diplomacy might with advantage be employed. He smiled at the reporter.

"Mr. Jerrold, can't we settle this without quarrelling? We're on a queer job, and you might spoil it all by hanging around. Leave us to it, and if there's anything fit for publication you shall have first pull. Don't ask me anything else and I'll promise you that."

"Honour?" queried Jerrold.

"Honour," repeated Green.

"Right you are. Slip off and we'll go back. Ring me up at the office."

The steam launch wheeled about as Green took his place in his own boat. Both men were satisfied. Each knew that the other would not go back on his word. The chief inspector's boat caught up with that which carried Foyle and Wrington just below Waterloo Bridge. They were threading the tiers of barges moored on the southern side. The group of detectives, with eyes ceaselessly watchful, passed comments in a low voice. They were not hopeful of finding their quarry yet. The search was merely one of precaution. Now and again one of the boats stopped and a man clambered aboard a barge, dropping back in a few minutes with a shake of the head. Foyle and Green left all this to the river men. They knew the work.

But, swift as they were, they made slow progress. Foyle glanced uneasily at his watch. It was already growing dusk, and the lights on the bridges were reflected in fantastic shapes from the dark waters. The superintendent spoke in a low voice to Wrington, who jerked his head in sharp assent.

"You're right, sir. If we take the likely one now we can leave the others till we've finished. We'll get on. Let her out, boys."

The two boats leapt forward, unobtrusively stealing a course in the shadow of the barges. It was delicate work in the gathering darkness, for many times a lighter swinging at its moorings threatened to crush them; but always they avoided the danger, though to the untrained faculties of Foyle it seemed that the margin of safety was no more than the breadth of a knife blade.

At London Bridge they crossed to the northern side, and here the real hunt began. Wrington signalled for the lights to be put out, and they stole forward, two black blotches on the dark water. Once they narrowly escaped running down a Customs' patrol boat, and voices cursed them with vigour out of the gloom. Again, as they were about to pass under a mooring rope, some one yelled to Foyle to duck. The warning came too late, and he would have been swept into the water but that a ready knife severed the rope. Then there was a halt for a little, while the barge was secured again.

"There's a new caretaker on a tier of barges just above Tower Bridge," whispered Wrington tensely. "We'll try there first. Keep your voice low if you want to speak, sir. Sound travels a long way on the water. Ah, there it is."

Foyle had got good eyesight, but he could make out nothing but a smudge where Wrington pointed—a smudge emphasised by a tiny point of twinkling light. The two motor-boats slowed down and approached, as it were, on tiptoe one on either side of the vessel. As they came nearer a barge took shape at the head of a long string.

"Stop her," ordered Wrington. "Now, sir, will you board her with me? Get ready."

As they lurched against the sides of the craft the two leapt aboard. Green and Jones had come up from the other side. The superintendent gave a whispered order, and the other three ranged themselves around a small deck cabin, while he thrust open the door and entered. It was quite dark within, and a smell of stale tobacco smoke met his nostrils.

He stood still and lit a match, holding himself in readiness for anything. A figure was dozing in a chair at the other side of the cabin. Foyle crossed stealthily and quietly encircled the man around the waist, pressing his arms to his side with all his strength. The man, suddenly awakened, struggled vigorously.

"Keep still," ordered Foyle, doggedly maintaining his hold. "Hi, Green, Wrington! Give me a hand here, will you?"



CHAPTER XXXIV

Powerful as he was and with his prisoner at a disadvantage, Foyle found it all he could do to maintain his hold until his companions broke through to his help. Even then it was no easy task, and the fight raged over the tiny cabin with the police hanging on to their prisoner like dogs to a wounded bear. No one spoke a word; there was only the quick panting of struggling men, the shuffling of their footsteps, and now and again a sharp crash as some piece of furniture overturned. Their very numbers handicapped the police in that confined space. Hands sometimes tore at Foyle, sometimes at the prisoner. The superintendent hung on with the tenacity of a bulldog, until a sudden lurch against the side brought his head sharply in contact with the boarding. Half dazed, he involuntarily relaxed his grip. The prisoner tore himself away and struck out viciously. A man fell heavily. For the fraction of a second a shadowy figure was indistinctly outlined in the doorway. Almost simultaneously Foyle, Green, and Wrington flung themselves in pursuit. They were too late. A soft splash told that the man had taken the only possible avenue of escape.

"Look lively with those boats. He's gone overboard," yelled Wrington. "Light up and get close in to the bank."

With the alacrity of men well used to sudden emergencies those detectives in the boats were at work on the word. One darted to cut off retreat to the northern bank, though the forbidding parapet of the Tower made it impossible for any man to land for a hundred yards or more. The other cruised cautiously among the strings of barges, watching for any attempt to land on one of them.

The superintendent had dashed to the stern of the barge and dropped into a small dinghy tethered there. At his word the others came running, and with Wrington at the oars they also crept about in determined search.

"It's hopeless," growled Green, in an undertone. "On a night like this we might as well look for a needle in a haystack."

"We won't give up yet, anyway," retorted Foyle, and there was an unwonted irritability in his tone. "We've mucked it badly enough, but I'm not going to fling it up while there's a sporting chance of finding him. Do you think he'll be able to swim across the river, Wrington?"

"It would need a good man to do it in his clothes. The tide's running pretty strong. More likely he's let himself drop down below the bridge, and will try to pull himself aboard one of these craft."

Heldon Foyle rubbed his chin. Every moment their chances of catching the fugitive lessened. In the darkness, which the lights from the bridge and from adjacent boats only made more involved, there was little hope of finding the man they wanted. He had not been seen from the moment of the first plunge, and there were a score of places on which he might have taken refuge, and where, now that he was warned, he could dodge the searchers. He might have committed suicide, it was true, but somehow Foyle did not think that likely.

For two hours the search continued, and then Foyle, chilled to the bone, decided that it was hopeless. Wrington hailed the other boats, and the detectives returned to the barge. A light thrown into the tiny cabin disclosed amid the disorder an open kit-bag full of linen. Green pulled out the top shirt and felt its texture between thumb and finger. Then he pointed to the name of a West-end maker on the collar.

"Yes, it's hardly the kind of thing a barge watchman would wear," commented Foyle. "We'd better take the bag along, and you can go through it at your leisure. The laundry marks will tell whose they are. You had better stop here, Wrington, and take charge. Find out whom the barge belongs to, and make what inquiries you can. Better have it thoroughly searched, and report to me in the morning. Use your discretion in detaining any one who comes aboard."

One of the motor-boats took Foyle and Green back to Scotland Yard. Both were glum and silent: Foyle because his plan had miscarried at the very moment that he had reached the keystone of the problem; Green because it was his natural habit. It was easy enough to realise now that the whole question was one of light. Had some one thought to strike a match while the struggle was going on there would have been no confusion, and the man would have been unable to get away.

Nor did the news that awaited Foyle at his office tend to make him more pleased with the progress of the investigation. A telephone message had come through the chief of the Liverpool detective force—

"Man found drugged in first-class compartment of express from London, bears warrant card and other documents identifying him as Inspector Robert Blake, C.I.D., London. Is now under care of our surgeon, and has not yet recovered consciousness. In no danger. He travelled from London with a woman fashionably dressed, dark hair, dark blue eyes. Am now endeavouring to find her. Can you suggest any steps we can take?"

Foyle banged his fist viciously on his desk. "There! We're not the only people who have made blunders to-day, Green. Look at that. Wire to them a full description of this woman Petrovska, and tell 'em to detain her if they come across her. We charge her with administering a noxious drug, and that'll hold her safe till we get the business cleared up. If she's trying to slip out of the country, they're pretty safe to get her in one of the liners. Wire over our men at Liverpool to the same effect."

Green slipped away. In a little he returned with a slip of paper in his hand. "Wire's gone to Liverpool. I've drafted this out for Mr. Jerrold, if you'll just look at it. I promised him he should know anything there was to tell."

The sheet of paper read—

"In connection with the investigation into the murder of Mr. Robert Grell, Superintendent Heldon Foyle, accompanied by Chief Detective-Inspector Green, Divisional Detective-Inspector Wrington, and other detectives, examined the body of a man found in the river, whom it was supposed might be the man Goldenburg, for whom search is being made. The police are of the opinion that the drowned man is not Goldenburg."

A light of amusement twinkled in Foyle's blue eyes.

"Don't you think he'll discover that to be a deliberate lie, Mr. Green?"

"Well," said Green doggedly, "we can't tell him what has happened, and we've got to satisfy him somehow. I promised to let him know something, and it's true that a body has been found. I asked Wrington. And it's true that it's not Goldenburg."

"Oh, all right, let it go. You'd better arrange the laundry inquiry first thing in the morning. Now let me alone. I want to think."



CHAPTER XXXV

Sir Hilary Thornton had come to Heldon Foyle's stocktaking. The superintendent, with a mass of papers on the desk in front of him, talked swiftly, now and again referring to the typewritten index of reports and statements in order to verify some point. The Assistant Commissioner occasionally interpolated some question, but for the most part he remained gravely silent. Foyle recapitulated the events of the preceding day.

"It was sheer foolishness, Sir Hilary," he admitted bitterly. "If we hadn't blundered Grell would have been in our hands now. As it is, we have to begin the search for him all over again."

Through the open window came the rumble of a motor-omnibus used by the police to test applicants for licenses. Thornton swung the window close.

"You still think that Grell had a hand in it?"

"I'm never positive, Sir Hilary, when it is a question of circumstantial evidence. But there can be no question that if he is not guilty himself he knows who is. I am so certain that I had a schedule of witnesses made out for the Treasury. Here they are."

He selected a sheet of paper and passed it to the other. Thornton read it and handed it back without comment.

"There are gaps in it, of course," went on Foyle. "As a matter of evidence, though, practically all we want is to identify the finger-prints. They of themselves would determine the investigation. But we can't tell whether they are Grell's or not until we get hold of him. We've identified the linen found in the bag on the barge as having been bought for Grell, but there is no name or initials on the bag itself. I have not yet heard from Wrington. He may have something further to report. About Goldenburg. I got Pinkerton's to look into his career in America. They have discovered that five years ago he was in San Francisco for three months, and at that time he was apparently well supplied with money. Grell arrived there a month before he left, and they left the city within a day of each other."

"A coincidence."

"It may be or may not. Grell's movements were pretty well chronicled in the American Press at that time, and it is at any rate conceivable that Goldenburg went there with the express intention of meeting him. More than that, Grell was staying at the Waldorf Astoria in New York two years ago. Goldenburg went straight there from India—which he had made too hot to hold him—stayed at the same hotel, and left within three days for Cape Town. Why should he go to Cape Town via New York? I may be right or wrong in the opinion I have formed, but at any rate we have established a point of contact between the two men."

"There is something in that," agreed Sir Hilary, with a jerky nod of the head.

"More than that, on the New York visit Goldenburg was accompanied by a woman whose description in every particular corresponds with that of the Princess Petrovska—though she called herself the Hon. Katherine Balton. There is material enough in that information, Sir Hilary, to draw a number of conclusions from. At any rate, they go to confirm my opinions at present. I know very well that there is sometimes smoke without fire, but my experience is that you can usually safely lay odds that there is a fire somewhere when you do see smoke."

The elliptic form of speech was sometimes adopted by Heldon Foyle in discussing affairs with one whose alertness of brain he could depend upon. Thornton twisted his grey moustache and his eye twinkled appreciatively.

"That's all right," he said. "But how do you account for Grell finding people ready to his hand in London to help him disappear at the very moment he needs them? There are several people mixed up in it, we know; but how is it that they are all loyal to him? We know that criminals will not keep faith with each other unless there is some strong inducement. How do you account for it?"

"There may be a dozen reasons. Purely as an hypothesis, Grell may have a hold on these people by threatening them with exposure for some crime they have committed. Self-interest is the finest incentive I know to silence."

"All the same, it's queer," said Sir Hilary, with a little frown. "What do you propose to do?"

Heldon Foyle's lips became dogged. "Break 'em up piecemeal as we lay our hands on 'em now. We've got one—the man we roped in with Red Ike. He's as tight as an oyster; but while we've got him he can't do anything to help his pals. Then there's the Princess. She's as slippery as an eel; but if the Liverpool people can get hold of her we may reckon she'll be kept safe for a few weeks on the charge of drugging Blake. Then there's Ivan Abramovitch. We may be able to lay our fingers on him. If there's any more in this business I don't know 'em; but every one of the gang we take means so much less help for Grell."

A discreet knock at the door heralded the entrance of a messenger, who laid an envelope on the table and silently disappeared.

"Western Union," muttered the superintendent. "This may be something else from Pinkerton's, Sir Hilary. Don't go yet." And, tearing open the envelope, he crossed the room and pulled down a code-book. In a little he had deciphered the cable. "We're getting closer," he said. "Pinkerton's have got hold of 'Billy the Scribe,' who identified the photograph of the dagger with which the murder was committed as one that he believes was in the possession of Henry Goldenburg when he last saw him. That may be fancy or invention, or it may be important. Hello! what is it?"

It was Green who had interrupted the conference. "Lady Eileen Meredith, sir—Machin reports that she left her home at five this morning, walked to Charing Cross Station, bought a copy of the Daily Wire, looked hurriedly through it, and then worked out something on a small notebook. Then she returned home, and came out again in half an hour's time and went to Waterloo Bridge floating station. There she asked to see one of the detective branch, and they referred her to headquarters at Wapping after nine this morning. Machin says he had no chance to telephone through before. She has not gone to Wapping," he added, as he saw the eyes of his chief seek the clock. "She went straight back home and has not come out since."

A low whistle came from between Foyle's teeth and his eyes met Thornton. "She knew the advertisement was to appear in the Daily Wire, and she got up early to warn Grell that we know, in case he should give an address. She did not discover a little paragraph of Mr. Green's invention till after she returned home, and then her curiosity was stirred, and she hoped, by going to Waterloo, to find a subordinate detective whom she might pump. What do you think, Green?"

"I agree with you, sir. She'll turn up here later, I shouldn't wonder."

Sir Hilary Thornton strode to the door, returning the greeting of Wrington, whom he passed as he retired. The river man was evidently pleased with himself. Foyle took a place in front of the fire and waited.