"Had a cold night?" he queried.

"Been too busy to think about it, sir," he chuckled. "We discovered that the owners of the barge engaged the man who gave the name of Floyd on the written recommendation of a firm of steamship agents—that, by the way, was forged, for the agents deny all knowledge of the man. He was supposed to have been an American sailor. Once or twice he has been visited on the boat by a couple of men who pulled up in a dinghy hired from Blackfriars. The regular waterman hardly ever caught a glimpse of him—he never showed himself by day. This morning a letter was sent aboard addressed to James Floyd, Esq. I never opened it, thinking perhaps you might prefer to do so. We searched the barge from end to end, and Jones is outside with a bag of different things you might like to see. What I thought most important, however, was this."

He dipped his hand in his jacket pocket and, withdrawing a small package wrapped in newspaper, carefully unfolded it. Something fell with a tinkle on Foyle's desk.

"By the living jingo!" ejaculated Green. "It's the sheath of the dagger!"

The superintendent picked up the thing—a small sheath of bright steel with, on the outside, a screw manipulating a catch by which it might be fastened to a belt. He handled it delicately from the ends.

"I believe you're right," he said. "Now, what about the letter?"



CHAPTER XXXVI

The motive of the actions taken that day by Eileen Meredith had been accurately diagnosed by Heldon Foyle. She had returned to her home after her visit to the police at Waterloo Bridge in a state of the keenest uncertainty. Not for an instant did she credit the paragraph referring to the dead body. The police had been able to read the cipher message from Grell, and she assumed correctly enough that they had been more successful than herself in obtaining an early glimpse of the advertisement. What, then, had become of her note of warning?

She was half reclining in a big easy-chair, her arms resting on the broad ledges, her fists tightly clenched. Her train of thought led her to alarming conclusions. If the police had been watching—and that now occurred to her as having been an obvious step—they must not only have seen her note, but they might have secured and questioned the person who brought the advertisement. And if so, might not Robert Grell's hiding-place have been betrayed? Her heartbeats became unsteady. What if the visit of the detectives down the river had been not to identify a drowned corpse, but a living prisoner? Suppose Grell were already in their hands?

She jumped to her feet. The watch on her wrist spoke to quarter to eleven. Her reflections had occupied many hours. She was already dressed in a brown walking costume, and she had not even removed her hat since she returned. In answer to her summons a maid appeared with a cup of coffee and a couple of biscuits on a tray. That reminded her that she had not eaten since she had risen. She drank the coffee and ate the biscuits, while waiting for the brougham she had ordered. Within a quarter of an hour she was on her way to Scotland Yard.

In the circular hall, entered through swing-doors from the wide steps of the main entrance, a uniformed policeman hurried forward to take her card. Through the big windows she could see beneath her the surging life of the Embankment and the smooth traffic of the river. Had the river given up its secret? The constable returned, and she was ushered along a grey and green corridor to Foyle's room. He had his overcoat on, and his hat and stick lay on the table. He smiled a polite welcome at her, and she strove to read his genial face without success. For her there was something of humiliation in the situation. She, who had taken pains to be offensive on the last occasion that they had met, was now dependent upon his good-nature for the information she wanted.

"What can I do for you, Lady Eileen?" he asked with grave courtesy.

She had dropped into a chair and her grey eyes met his, half defiant, half entreating. She answered with quick directness—

"You can tell me what has happened to Mr. Grell."

He opened his hands in a gesture of surprised expostulation. "My dear young lady! I only wish we knew."

Her foot tattooed impatiently on the floor. "Please don't treat me as if I were a child, Mr. Foyle. Something has happened since yesterday morning. I demand to know what it is."

Foyle was invariably gentle with women, and her insistent dignity rather amused than angered him. "Since you demand it," he said suavely, laying a scarcely perceptible stress on the word demand, "I will tell you. As the result of certain information, observation has been kept on Lady Eileen Meredith. She was followed yesterday to the advertisement offices of the Daily Wire, where she made inquiries respecting a certain cipher advertisement which was to appear in that paper. Failing to obtain what she wanted, she left a note warning some one in the following terms: 'The police know the cipher. Be very cautious. R. F. is acting with them.'"

An angry flush swept across the girl's pale cheeks. "I know you have set your spies about me," she said scornfully. "I did not come here to ask you that. What——"

"One moment. Let me finish. This morning Lady Eileen rose at an unfashionable hour—about four, to be exact—and went out to obtain a copy of the Daily Wire. Having deciphered the advertisement, and finding that it afforded no direct clue to Grell's whereabouts, she returned home and there came across a paragraph—which I will confess was inspired in this office—that set her wondering whether, after all, her lover was safe. She went out again—this time to Waterloo Bridge police station—and there made some inquiries——"

Eileen had got to her feet. She was plainly angry. "I don't want to know how effective your spying on a harmless woman can be."

"I am glad you admit it is effective," he answered quickly. "I wanted to bring that home to you. You cannot or will not understand in how perilous a situation you may find yourself if you go on playing with fire. There is no one else who has fuller sympathy with you or greater understanding of your feelings than I. Therefore I warn you. Do you know that merely on what you have done and are doing I should, were I certain that Grell was guilty, be justified in having you arrested as an accessory after the fact?" His voice became very grave. "If your conduct has not hampered this investigation, Lady Eileen, it has not been for want of effort. Take the warning of a man who wishes you well. For neither your position nor your friends will save you if ever you stand in my way. I shall do my duty, whatever the consequences."

She was more impressed by his words and his tone than she would have cared to admit. But except that her face became a shade paler, she gave no indication that the warning touched her. Foyle had picked up his hat and stick.

"You have not found him, then?" she cried. "Can it be doing you any harm to say what has happened?"

"We have not found Grell—yet," he answered. "We found where he had been hiding, but he got away."

A sigh of relief came from between her lips. She scarcely noticed the abruptness with which he ended the interview, and returned his bow almost with cordiality. Foyle only stayed long enough to thrust a few papers into the safe, and then followed her out. Two resounding smacks called his attention to the landing of the private stairs, where Chief Detective-Inspector Green was struggling in the embrace of a stout, matronly woman, while a half-suppressed snigger came from a passing clerk.

Green, his solemn face crimson, pushed the woman gently away from him towards a girl and a young man who were apparently waiting for her. "There, there; that will do. Let us know if everything does all right. Won't keep you a moment, sir," and he disappeared along the corridor.

When he returned he had recovered something of his usual impassivity. But he could not be oblivious to the twinkle in Foyle's eyes. "Women are the very devil," he said as if in answer. "There's no knowing what they'll do. Now, the young girl there wanted to run away with a man of fifty, who is already a married man. So her mother—the old lady you saw kissing me—brought her up here, evidently under the impression that we can do anything. I took the girl into my room and gave her some good advice, telling her she had much better marry the young man you saw—they had been engaged, and quarrelled—and I told of some cases like her own that had come under my own knowledge. She wept a bit, admitted I was right, and then suddenly flung herself on top of me and started hugging and kissing me. I got her outside, told her mother that the matter was all right, when I'm blessed if she didn't try it on too. That was just as you came out. You may have noticed that I side-stepped warily round the young man."

"Be careful, Green. Is she a widow?" laughed Foyle. And then, more seriously: "How far is it to this place? Our man may be out when we get there."

"Shall we leave it till to-night, sir? It will be more certain then."

"No, we'll chance it. Let's have a look at the letter." He fished a note out of his pocket and paused to read it through, carefully replacing it in its envelope as he finished.

It was the letter that had been addressed to Floyd on the barge "Flowery Land." It read—

"DEAR MR. FLOYD,—I have tried to carry out your instructions, but luck has been against me, as I have to be very careful. It has been easy enough to buy the seamen's discharges that you require, but I have been unable to see Lola since she took the advertisement to-day, so do not know if she has managed to raise money. I believe I am fairly safe here, and my friends are to be relied upon, though they are much occupied with the gambling and the smoke, so there is not much quietness. If you write, address me as Mackirty, 146 Smike Street, Shadwell."

It had needed little penetration to identify the writer of the note as Ivan, and to guess that he had taken refuge in a gambling and opium den. Indeed, this latter fact was soon verified by a telephone appeal to the detective-inspector in charge of the district, who declared that he was only waiting for sufficient proof of the character of the house before making a raid. Foyle had promptly ordered the place to be discreetly surrounded, but that no steps were to be taken until his arrival. He had conceived an admiration for Ivan's cunning in the matter, for there was no place where a fugitive could be more certain of having the intrusion of strangers more carefully guarded against than a gambling-house.

He was willing to forego a conviction against the keepers of the place rather than miss an opportunity of securing Ivan. For cautious steps are always necessary in proceeding against such places. It is so easy to transform a game of baccarat, faro, or fantan into an innocent game of bridge or whist with a few innocent spectators, and to hide all gambling instruments between the time the police knock and the time they effect an entry. Then, however positive the officers may be, they have no legal proof, unless one of their number has been previously introduced as a "punter," and to do that would require time.

Smike Street at one time had been a street of some pretensions. Even now, in comparison with the neighbourhood in which it was set, it maintained an air of genteel respectability, and its gloomy three-storeyed houses had in many cases no more than one family to a floor. It was, however, one of those back streets of the East End which are never deserted, for its adult inhabitants plied trades which took them abroad at all hours—market porters, street hawkers, factory workers, dock labourers, seamen, all trades jostled here. One or two of the houses bore a sign, "Hotel for Men Only."

It was at the corner that Foyle and Green were joined by the divisional detective-inspector, and the three swung into the deserted saloon bar of a shabby public-house which afforded a better opportunity for unobtrusive conversation than the street. Leaving the glass of ale he ordered untouched upon the counter, the superintendent rapidly learned all steps that had been taken.

"It's a corner house on this side," said the local man, "kept by an old scoundrel of a Chinaman calling himself Li Foo, and a man who was a bit of a bruiser in San Francisco at one time—a chap called Keller. He looks after the faro game in a back room on the first floor, while the chink runs the black smoke upstairs on the stop storey. They're the bosses, but there's three under-dogs, and the place is kept going night and day."

Foyle grunted. "How long have you known this? Couldn't you have dropped on 'em before?"

The other made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. "They're cunning. The show had been running three months before we got wind of it. That was about a month ago, and we've tried every trick in the bag to get one of our men inside. There's no chance of rushing the place on a warrant either, because both front and back doors are double, and only one man is allowed to go in at a time. They won't open to two or more. Before we could get the doors down there'd not be a thing left in the place as evidence."

A gleam of temper showed in Foyle's blue eyes. "That's all very well, Mr. Penny. It won't do to tell me that you've known of this place for a month and that it is still carried on. Why didn't you let a man try single-handed? With the door once open he could force his way in."

"I couldn't send a man on a job like that," protested the other. "Why, you don't know the place. They'd murder him before we could get at him."

He flinched away from Foyle as though afraid his superior would strike him. For the superintendent's hands were clenched and his eyes were blazing. Yet when he spoke it was with dangerous quietness.

"A man of your experience ought to know by now that it's his business to take risks. If you'd made up your mind there was no other way of obtaining evidence you should have sent a man in. Never mind that now. Take your orders from Mr. Green for the day. Green, I'll be back in an hour. I'm going into that place. Act according to your own discretion if you think I'm in difficulties."



CHAPTER XXXVII

The game of faro is one that makes no strenuous demands on the skill of the players. It is chance pure and simple, and therein lies its fascination. While baccarat or chemin-de-fer are almost invariably games to be most in favour when the police raid a gambling-house in the West End, at the other side of the town it is invariably discovered that faro holds first place in the affections of gamblers. In its simplest form it is merely betting on the turn of each card throughout a pack.

Although it was broad daylight, the room in which the operations took place was shuttered and had the blinds drawn. A three-light gaselier beat down on a big table in the centre of the room, round three sides of which were ranged a dozen or fifteen men eagerly intent on the operations of the banker. A heavy-jowled man with overhanging black eyebrows, he was seated in a half-circle cut into the centre of one side of the table. In front of him was a bright steel box sufficiently large to contain a pack of cards with the face of the top card discernible at an opening at the top. The cards were pressed upwards in the box by springs, and at the side a narrow opening allowed the operator to push the cards out one at a time, thus disclosing the faces of those underneath and deciding the bets. On each side of the box were the discarded winning and losing cards, and on the dealer's left a tray which served the purpose of a till in receiving or paying out money. A cloth with painted representations of the thirteen cards of a suit was pinned to the table nearest to the players, and they placed stakes on the cards they fancied would next be disclosed. Twice the box would click out cards amid a dead silence. Those who had staked out money on the first card disclosed won, those who had staked on the second lost.

There was often dead silence while the turn was being made, save for the click of a marker shown on the wall and guarded by a thick-set little man with red hair, fierce eyes, and an enormous chest. But directly afterwards babel would break out, to be sternly quelled by the heavy-jowled man.

"I 'ad set on sa nine," ... "Say, that king was coppered," ... "I ought ter have split it."

The jargons of all the world met and crossed at such time. It was rarely that there arose a serious quarrel, for Keller and his myrmidons had a swift way of dealing with malcontents. When a man became troublesome, the fierce-eyed little marker with the big chest would tap him on the shoulder.

"That's enough, you," he would say menacingly.

If the warning were not sufficient the left hand of the little man would drop to his jacket pocket, and when it emerged it would be decorated with a heavy brass knuckle-duster. It took but one blow to make a man lose all interest in the game, and thereafter he would be handed over to the tender mercies of "Jim," a giant of a door-keeper, who after dark would drop him into the street at some convenient moment, with a savage warning to keep his mouth shut lest a worse thing befall him.

This was the place Heldon Foyle had made up his mind to enter single-handed—a place in which the precautions against surprise were so complete that every article which could be identified as a gambling implement was made of material which could be readily burnt, or soluble at a temperature lower than that of boiling water. A big saucepan was continually simmering on the fire, so that the implements could be dropped in it at a second's notice.

But Heldon Foyle had hopes. At the worst he could only fail. He returned to Scotland Yard and shut himself up for twenty minutes in the make-up room. When he reached Smike Street again he was no longer the spruce, upright, well-dressed official. A grimy cap covered tousled hair. His face was strained, his eyes bloodshot and his moustache combed out raggedly. A set of greasy mechanic's overalls had been drawn over his own clothes. He walked uncertainly.

Green and the local inspector saw him reel past the public-house in which they still remained, as affording an excuse to be near the spot, and reel up Smike Street. Towards the end he appeared confused and gravely inspected several houses before approaching the gambling-joint. He rapped on the door with his knuckles, ignoring both the knocker and the bell. It opened a few inches wide, enough for the scowling face of Jim the door-keeper to appear in the aperture.

Supporting himself with one hand on the door-post, Foyle leered amiably at the Cerberus. "Hello, old sport, I want t'come in. Open the door, can't you?"

"Git out of it, you drunken swab. You don't live here," said Jim, taking stock of the drunken intruder and coming to a quick decision.

The door slammed. Foyle beat a tattoo on the panels with his hands, swaying perilously to and fro the while. Again the door opened the cautious six inches, and Jim's face was not pleasant to look on as he swore at the disturber.

"Tha'ss allri', ol' sport," hiccoughed Foyle. "I want to come in. A Bill Reid tol' me if I wanted—hic—game I was to come here. You know ol' Bill Reid"—this almost pleadingly—"he'll tell you I'm allri', eh?"

The door-keeper of the gaming-house holds an onerous responsibility. On him depends the safety of the gamblers from interference by the representatives of law and order. Jim's suspicions were lulled by Foyle's quite obvious drunkenness. Nevertheless, a drunken man who had apparently been told of the place was a danger so long as he remained clamouring for admittance on the step. Jim tried tact.

"There's nothing doing now," he explained. "You go away and come back to-night. It'll be a good game then."

"Tha'ss a lie," said Foyle, with an assumption of drunken gravity. "Old Bill Reid he says to me, he says——"

But Jim had lost the remainder of his small stock of patience. He jerked the door again in Foyle's face, pulled off the chain and leapt out, his intention of throwing the other into the street and so ending the argument once for all written on every line of his stalwart figure.

That was his programme. But Foyle had also his programme. He had got the door open. All that remained between him and the entrance was the muscular figure of Jim. He suddenly became sober. The door-keeper's hand grasping at his collar clutched empty air. The detective's head dropped. Jim was met half-way by a short charge and Foyle's shoulder caught him in the chest. Both men were forced by the momentum of the charge back through the open door and fell in a heap just within.

At ordinary times the two would have been fairly evenly matched. Both were big men, though the door-keeper had slightly the advantage in size. He had, however, been taken by surprise and received no opportunity to utter more than a stifled oath before his breath was taken away. Inside the house Foyle stood on no ceremony in order to silence his opponent before those within could be alarmed. He had fallen on top of Jim. Pressing down on him with head and knee, he swung his right fist twice. Jim gave a grunt and his head rocked loosely on his neck. He had, in the vernacular of the ring, been put to sleep.

The effects of a knockout blow, however deftly administered, do not last long. The detective's first move was to close the street door, leaving the bolts and chains undone, so that it was fastened merely by the catches of the Yale locks. Then he whipped a handkerchief about the unconscious man's mouth, and silently dragging him to a sitting posture, handcuffed his wrists beneath his knees, so that he was trussed in the position schoolboys adopt for cock-fighting. He surveyed his handiwork critically, and, a new idea occurring to him, unlaced the man's boots, and, taking them off, tied the laces round the ankles. That would prevent the man rattling his boots on the floor when he came to, and so have given the alarm.

The inner door had been left open by Jim, a lucky circumstance for Foyle, as otherwise he would have been at a loss, for it was of stout oak and he must have made considerable noise in forcing it. Yet he did not make any attempt to soften his footsteps as he climbed the stairs. He hoped to be taken as an ordinary client long enough, at any rate, to discover the whereabouts of Ivan. Once that was achieved he was reckless as to his identity becoming known.

He needed no guide to the right door, for the clink of money and the exclamations of many voices guided him. He threw it open and entered the faro room with quiet assurance. Beyond a quick glance from Keller no one took any notice of him. They took it for granted that Jim had gone into his bona-fides and that he was "square."

He took up a position at the end of the table nearest the door, and apparently watched the game before staking. In reality he was studying the faces of the players. He was uncertain whether he would find Ivan there, but he had calculated that the Russian would at least be watching, if not taking a hand, if only as a means of passing the time during his voluntary imprisonment. And he was right. Seated at the table two or three paces away was the Russian, lost to all save the turn of the card.

Foyle bent over and staked a coin. At the same moment Ivan's eyes met his in puzzled recognition. There was a crash and the gambler sprang up, overturning the chair. His hand was outstretched, the finger pointing at the detective.

"That man—how did he get in here?" he cried, with something like alarm.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

For a second or a trifle more a dead silence followed Ivan's denunciation. Heldon Foyle backed towards the door, dragging with him a chair which he had clutched with some idea of using it as a shield should there be a rush. There arose an angry snarl among the gamblers, for with them suspicion was quick. A rush of crimson had swept across Ivan's face at the first alarm. He ejaculated something excitedly in Russian, and then went on in English—

"He is a police officer. I know him. It is the man Foyle of Scotland Yard."

At the mention of the word police the hubble died down a little. Heldon Foyle, leaning quietly on the back of the chair, took advantage of the lull.

"Yes, I am a police officer," he admitted confidently. "The place is surrounded. It will pay you to behave yourselves—you over there, put that knife away, do you hear?"

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

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

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

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

It was with small hope that the superintendent sounded his whistle again. A heavy blow on the face laid open his cheek, and he saw the little red-headed man who had slipped on his heavy brass knuckle-duster dodge back into the crowd. He relinquished his hold of the chair and defended himself with his hands. He carried a pistol in his pocket, but, imbued with the traditions of the London police, he would not use a lethal weapon save in the last extremity. Inch by inch he sidled along the wall, fighting all the while until he reached the corner. Here the crowd could only come at him from the front.

A knife was thrown and a bottle crashed against his shoulder. The crisis had come. He dropped his guard and his hand closed over his pistol. Those nearest to him recoiled as the muzzle was thrust into their faces.

"He daren't shoot," insisted a voice which Foyle recognised as that of Ivan.

In fact, the gibe was partly true. The detective had himself well in hand, and he knew that even though he were justified, a wounded man would lead to an inquiry which at the very least would prevent his going on with the Grell investigation for some time. But to let the taunt pass would invite disaster. He dropped the weapon to his thigh, forefinger extended along the barrel to help his aim, and pressed the trigger with his second finger twice. The reports were deafening in the confined space of the room, and one man put his hand to his head with a sharp cry. He need not have disturbed himself, for the bullets had passed over him and were buried in the opposite wall.

"We'll see whether I daren't fire," said Foyle grimly. "Come on. Who'd like to be the first?"

There was no answer to his challenge, for from below came the sound of a crash and the quick tread of many men racing up the stairs. One or two of the gamblers turned white, and Foyle felt the tension of his nerves relax. Half-a-dozen men, headed by Green and Penny, were rushing into the room.

A little gurgling laugh burst from the superintendent, and he waved his hand about the room. "You see, Penny, it could be done, single-handed. That is Ivan over there. Take good care of him, Green. Keller is that man knocked out down there." And, swaying, he crashed forward to the floor in a dead faint.

When he came round he was lying on a couch with his injured face and shoulder neatly bandaged. There were only two other persons in the room, Green and one of the local detectives, who were systematically making an inventory of everything in the room. The superintendent struggled to a sitting position and the movement brought Green to his side.

"Hello, Green," said the superintendent cheerfully. "You've got 'em all away, I see. How long have I been lying here?"

"Matter of half an hour. It's only a case of loss of blood, I think. You must have been bleeding for some time before we broke in on the tea-party. We put some first-aid bandages on."

"I'm all right," said Foyle, rising stiffly. "What happened? You were a deuce of a time answering my whistle."

"We tried the wrong door first, and it's my belief that nothing short of dynamite would move it. It's steel-lined, and with all the bolts pushed home we stood no chance. We gave it up after awhile and tried the other. Luckily that was not bolted."

"I know. I left it like that purposely."

"Well, we didn't know. By that time we got thirty uniform men down here, and they followed us up. Once we got the door down and found the chap you'd trussed behind it, we had no trouble worth mentioning except with Master Ivan, who fought like a wild cat. We got the cuffs on him at last, but even then it took four men to get him away. Penny is down at the station waiting till you come before charging 'em. What is it to be? Attempt to murder?"

"No, I don't think we can get a conviction on that," answered Foyle. "There's plenty up against them—unlawful wounding, assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty, frequenting a gaming-house, and, of course, Ivan could be charged with the Waverley affair if we find it necessary now. I see you've started running over the house."

"Only just started. We are waiting for the divisional surgeon to see to you and three men who are sleeping like logs in the opium-joint upstairs. The Chinaman seems to have vanished—at any rate, he can't be found. It's just about time this place was broken up. Keller took no chances with the bank." He picked up the faro-box. "Now, in the States this kind of thing would not go. It's a two-card needle-tell swindle."

"That's done with fifty-four cards to the pack, isn't it?" asked Foyle indifferently, handling the box. "I've seen something like it before. The dealer is warned of the approach of duplicate cards by a tiny needle-point jumping out of one side of the box."

"That's it."

"Well, all that will have to be explained when the case comes on for trial. I'm more interested in Ivan just now. It's something to have him under lock and key. I'll leave you here to handle the remainder of the business and get down to the station. No—I'll not wait for the doctor. I feel perfectly fit now."

In spite of his assertion the superintendent felt a little dizzy when he reached the open air. A big crowd filled the street, and a dozen reporters who had been held sternly at bay by the constables on duty at the gambling-house pounced on him determinedly. He laughingly waved them aside, but they would not be denied, and while they walked at his side gave a succinct account of what had happened, omitting all reference to Ivan Abramovitch.

"New thing for you to come all the way to the East End to take charge of a gambling raid, isn't it?" asked Jerrold, the Wire man, in a tone that told of a shrewd suspicion of something underlying.

"Oh, it's been an experience," said Foyle lightly, indicating his bandaged head. "I've told you everything I know now, boys. If there's anything else you can use, I'll have it at the Yard presently. So-long."

The journalists melted away, and Foyle presently found himself in a dingy back street where the local police station was situated. Here also a crowd of men and women had gathered, and the reserve men at the door were repelling eager women who, not knowing who had been taken in the raid, feared that their husbands might be included and were anxious to know the worst; for news of that kind spreads rapidly.

A motor-car standing without told the superintendent of Sir Hilary Thornton's presence. And the Assistant Commissioner was the first person he saw as he entered the place. Thornton came forward with hand outstretched.

"Thank God, Foyle! We had a rumour at the Yard that you had been badly hurt. I see you've been knocked about a bit. What made you take a hand yourself down here? Couldn't you leave a raid to be carried out by the local folk?"

"I didn't come down here specially for that reason," smiled the superintendent. "I wanted to get hold of Ivan Abramovitch, and everything else was purely incidental."

"They're waiting for you to settle who shall be charged with what," said Thornton. "Be as quick as you can, and I'll wait and give you a lift back in the car. I'll not be happy till I've heard all about this."

The two passed into the charge-room, where Penny was in conversation with the superintendent of the division. In reply to a question, he thought for a little.

"We've got eighteen men in all, sir," he answered. "It would have been fifty if we'd been able to bring our coup off at night."

"Very well. Have 'em all in except Abramovitch and Keller. I will pick out those I want charged with assault, or who I think were mixed up with Keller. The remainder might be let out on bail after you have verified their addresses."

The prisoners were ushered into the room, a shame-faced, sullen, dispirited gang now. Penny and a clerk passed along the line, taking their names, while Foyle scrutinised their faces. Finally, the superintendent touched four men on the shoulder one after the other. One was Jim, the door-keeper; another the red-haired man with the big chest; the third and fourth two men who had been prominent in the attack. Penny put a tick against their names, and the whole of the prisoners, many of whom had broken into voluble protest and appeal, were taken back to the cells. Foyle had determined to leave the business of charging them to Green and Penny.



CHAPTER XXXIX

Something of the chagrin caused to Heldon Foyle by the escape of the man on the barge had vanished with the success of his operations in Smike Street. If his frontal attack had failed, he had at least achieved something by his flank movement. The break-up of the gambling-den, too, was something. Altogether he felt that his injuries were a cheap price to pay for what had been achieved.

In bare detail he related the sequence of events to Sir Hilary Thornton, who, with a gloved hand jerking at his grey moustache, listened with only an occasional observation.

The inevitable crowd of journalists, who had been warned by telephone from their colleagues at Smike Street, were jumbled in a tiny, tiny waiting-room when Foyle and his superior reached headquarters. The superintendent, having changed his attire, made it his first business to satisfy their clamorous demands by dictating a brief and discreet account of the raid, to be typed and handed out to them, then with a head that ached intolerably he forced himself to do some clear thinking.

With the dossier of the case before him, he read and re-read all that had been gathered by his men and himself since that night when he had been called from his sleep to find Harry Goldenburg dead. Was there some point he had overlooked? He knew how fatal it was in the work of criminal investigation to take anything for granted. Although the main work of the explorer was now focused on Grell, it was not entirely certain that he was the murderer. Indeed, strange as his proceedings had been, there might be some explanation that would account for them. It might be that after Grell was found the whole investigation would have to begin again with the scent grown cold. Stranger things had happened.

The superintendent dropped his papers wearily into a drawer and turned the key. His speculations were unprofitable. He turned over in his brain his plans for running down Grell. Of the people who had been assisting him to evade capture three were out of the way for the time being. Ivan Abramovitch and Condit were safely under lock and key. The Princess Petrovska was out of London, and there was a fair margin of assumption that she was located somewhere in Liverpool, where the local police were assisting the Scotland Yard men. It was hardly possible that she would double back, even if she evaded their rigorous search. With the detectives on duty at the London termini reinforced and on strict watch, her chances of doing so were very slim.

With three of his friends out of touch, and hampered by want of money, Grell would have to seek a fresh refuge. The chief result of Foyle's actions had been to make any steps he might take more difficult. That was all. It was still possible for him to dodge the pursuit.

The evening papers with the story of the raid were already upon the streets. What would be the effect upon Grell's plans when he learned that Ivan had been captured? In the case of an ordinary criminal, Heldon Foyle might have forecasted what would happen with a fair degree of certainty. But Grell was not an ordinary criminal, even if he were a criminal at all. If he could gain a hint of the possible intentions of the fugitive he might be able to meet them.

There was a vague chance that either Ivan Abramovitch or Condit might be induced to volunteer a statement, although the possibility was remote. In America or France there would have been ways of forcing them to speak. In England it was impossible.

With a yawn Foyle relinquished his efforts, and his head dropped forward on his desk. In a little he was fast asleep. He was roused by a light touch on the shoulder. Green had returned.

"Hello!" said the superintendent. "I must have dozed off. How have you got on?"

Green adjusted his long body to the comfort of an arm-chair. "We found the Chinaman. He'd climbed through a trap-door on to the roof. We went over the house with a tooth-comb, both before and after I'd had a little talk with Keller. It seems that both he and his partner the Chinaman had known the man for some time before they gave him a room. They're old hands at the game and won't talk too much. He went out very occasionally, and mostly at night. We found nothing bearing on the murder, but plenty to show that Keller and his pal were running a pretty hot shop."

"H'm! could you dig anything out of any of the others? There was the door-keeper."

"No. Tight as oysters, all except those who don't know anything. Ivan has a fit of the sulks. He's called in Mordix to help him fix up his defence."

The superintendent was rubbing his chin. "Mordix isn't too scrupulous. I think we'll hold over the charge of abduction for the time being until we see how things look. Nobody hurt much, I suppose?"

The saturnine features of the inspector wrinkled into as near a grin as they were capable of. "Some of them are rather sore, but the doctor thinks they can all appear in court to-morrow."

Foyle stretched himself and rose. "Right. We won't worry any further about it for the moment. I'm feeling that the best thing for me is a good night's rest. You'd better go home and do the same. Good night."



CHAPTER XL

A note came to Sir Ralph Fairfield while he was lingering over his breakfast, and the first sight of the writing, even before he broke open the envelope, caused a thrill to run through him.

"You must see me at once," said the well-remembered writing imperatively. "Urgent, urgent!"

The paper trembled in Fairfield's hands, and it was only the reminder of the servant that the messenger was waiting that brought him sharply out of his daze.

"Yes, yes. Show him in. And, Roberts, while I am engaged I don't want to be disturbed by anybody or anything. Don't forget that."

If Roberts had not been so well trained it was possible that he might have shown surprise at his master's order. For through the door he held open there shambled an ungainly figure of a man, hunchbacked, with a week's growth of beard about his chin, and wearing heavy, patched boots, corduroys, a shabby jacket and a bright blue muffler. His cap he twisted nervously in gnarled, dirty hands as he stood waiting just inside the room till he was certain that the servant had retired out of hearing.

Then, with a swift movement, he locked the door, straightened himself out, and strode with outstretched hand to where Fairfield stood, stony-faced and impassive. The baronet deliberately put his hands behind him, and the other halted suddenly.

"Fairfield!"

Then it was that the impassivity of Sir Ralph vanished. He gripped his visitor by the arm, almost shaking him in a gust of quick, nervous passion.

"You fool—you damned fool! Why have you come here? If they catch you, you will be hanged. Do you know that? For all I know the place is watched. They may have seen you come in. Perhaps the place is surrounded now."

"I'll risk it," said the other coolly, drawing a chair up to the table. "I've got to risk something. But I don't think they saw me come in. I don't think they'll catch me, and if they do I don't think they'll hang me. What do you think of that, Fairfield?"

There was the old languid mockery in his voice, but his friend, looking at him closely, could see that the face had become a trifle thinner, that beneath the dirt that begrimed it there were haggard traces that betrayed worry and sleeplessness. Fairfield had thought much of Robert Grell lately, but he had never dreamed that the hunted man would come to him—come to him in broad daylight, without a word of warning. Did Grell know that he was in touch with the police? Had he come, a driven, desperate man, to fling reproaches at the friend who had joined in the hunt? That was unlikely. Grell, murderer or not, was not that type. He did nothing without a reason. He was, Fairfield reflected, a murderer—a murderer who had not dared stay to face the consequences of his deed. That surely severed all claims, whatever their old friendship might have been.

"What do you want?" he asked, with a hard note in his voice. "Why have you come to me?"

The man in the chair lifted his shoulders.

"That is fairly obvious. I want you to do what, if our situations were reversed, I would do for you. I want money. If you can get me a few hundreds I shall be all right."

A spasm contracted Fairfield's face for a second. He had not asked for explanations. Grell had volunteered none. It seemed as though he were taking for granted the assumption that he was guilty of the murder. Surely an innocent man would have been eager to assert his innocence at the first opportunity. When Sir Ralph answered, it was slowly, as though he were weighing each word that he spoke. "I would be willing enough to help a friend—you know that, Grell. But why you should think I would lift a finger to help you evade justice I fail to see. I know enough of the law to know that I should become an accessory to the fact."

"You really think I killed that man?" The words came quick and sharp, like a pistol shot. "I thought you had known me long enough——"

"Words," interrupted Fairfield bitterly. "All words. You were the last man I should have thought capable of such a thing; but all the facts are against you. Need I go over them? Let me tell you that if ever a jury knows what Scotland Yard knows and you stand in the dock, no earthly power can save you. If that crime is on your conscience it seems to rest lightly enough."

Grell stood up and rested one hand lightly on the sleeve of his companion. "Fairfield, old chap," he said earnestly, "we have been through enough together to prove to you that I am not a coward. I swear on my honour that I had nothing to do with that man's death—though I have had reason enough to wish him dead, God knows. Do you think it is fear for myself that has driven me into hiding?"

Fairfield shook his head impatiently, and shaking himself clear paced quickly up and down the room. "That's all very well, Grell," he said more mildly, "but it is hardly convincing in the face of facts. You disappear immediately after the murder, having got me to lie to cover your retreat, and the next I hear from you is when you want money. It's too thin. If I were you I should go now. For the sake of old times I will say nothing about your visit here, but to help you by any other means—no. If you had no hand in that murder, come out like a man and make a fight for it. I will back you up."

"Thanks." There was a dry bitterness in Grell's tone that did not escape Sir Ralph. "I couldn't have got better advice if I'd gone to Scotland Yard itself." His voice changed to a certain quality of harshness. "Look here, Fairfield. Suppose I do know something about this business; suppose I know who Harry Goldenburg was, and how and why he was killed; suppose I had stayed while inquiries were being made, then I should either have to have betrayed a friend or taken the burden on my own shoulders; suppose I say I was honest that night when I asked you to conceal my absence from the St. Jermyn's Club; that I did nothing which I would not do over again"—he banged his fist on the table and his eyes glowed fiercely—"I tell you I have had no choice in this matter. Even you, who know me as well as any man, do not know what I had been through until that man lay dead. Since then I have suffered hell. The police have been at my heels ever since. I carried little enough money away with me, and I dared not attempt to change a cheque while I was thought to be dead." He drew a gold watch from his pocket. "I dare not even pawn this, for even the pawnbrokers are watched. They stopped all my efforts to raise money in other directions, and have isolated me from my friends. I have fifteen shillings left, and yet since they routed me out of cover the day before yesterday I have not dared get a lodging for fear that I might arouse suspicion. I slept on the Embankment last night."

He paused, breathless from his own vehemence. Fairfield had seen him in moments of danger, yet never had he seen him so roused out of himself. He could see one of the sinewy hands actually trembling, and that alone was proof enough of the violence of the hunted man's emotion. He went to a side table, and pouring out a generous dose of brandy from a decanter, squirted a little soda-water in it and handed it to Grell. But his face was still hard and set.

"Drink that," he said. And then, as the other obeyed: "It is no use fencing with the question, Grell. If you want me to help you you will have to give some explanation. I am not going to dip my hands in this business blindly. Don't think it's a matter of you and I simply. This concerns Eileen."

Grell put down his empty glass and stared into the other's eyes.

"Ah yes, Eileen," he said quietly. "What about her?"

"This," Fairfield spoke tensely, "that if you are guilty you have ruined her life; if you are innocent and cannot prove it you might as well be guilty. I'll not conceal from you that I have given Scotland Yard some measure of assistance in trying to find you. Do you know why? Because I judged you to be a man. Because I thought that if put to it you might prove your innocence or take the only course that could spare her the degradation of seeing the man she loved convicted as a murderer."

A grim unmirthful smile parted Robert Grell's lips. He understood well enough what was meant. "You always were a good friend, Fairfield," he retorted. "Perhaps you have a revolver you could lend me."

"Will you use it if I do?" burst impulsively from Fairfield's white lips. He was sincere in his suggestion. To his mind there was only one escape from the predicament in which his friend found himself. Anything was preferable, in his mind, to the open scandal of public trial.

"Don't be a fool," said Grell, making a gesture as though waving the subject aside. "I shall not commit suicide—at any rate, while I've got a fighting chance. Let's get to the point. Will you lend me some money?"

The clear-cut face of Fairfield had gone very pale. When he answered it was with dry lips and almost in a whisper.

"Not a farthing." And then with more emphasis—"Not a farthing."

A mist was before his eyes. The lock of the door clicked and Grell shambled out. For ten minutes or more Ralph Fairfield remained, his fingers twitching at the buttons of his waistcoat. A revulsion of feeling had come. Had he done right? Was Grell's course the wisest, after all? How had his own feelings towards Eileen influenced him in his decision not to help the man who had been his friend?

He resolved to try to shake the matter from his mind, and his hand sought the bell-push. Twice he rang without receiving any reply, and he flung open the door and called imperatively—

"Roberts!"

Still his man failed to answer. He walked quickly through all the rooms that constituted his apartments. There was no trace of the missing servant. A quick suspicion tugged at his brain, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. Of course, Roberts knew Grell, but the disguise of the explorer was not absolutely impenetrable. In spite of his clothes, his missing moustache, and his tousled hair dyed black, Fairfield had known him. Why not the servant? And if Roberts had recognised him and was missing—

Fairfield began to hurriedly put on an overcoat.



CHAPTER XLI

The police court proceedings in connection with the gambling-joint in Smike Street had opened satisfactorily so far as the police were concerned. All the prisoners but the principals and those involved in the attack on Heldon Foyle had been subjected to small fines, and were, as the legal phrase goes, "bound over." The remainder had been remanded for a week at the request of the prosecuting solicitor, a half-hearted request for bail being refused.

For the first time since he had attained the rank of superintendent, Foyle himself had gone into the witness-box. That was unavoidable, as he was the only man who could give direct evidence of the character of the house. Hitherto he had arranged so that the court work fell on his subordinates while he gave his attention to organisation and administrative detail; for the giving of evidence is only the end of the work of a detective. There are men behind the scenes in most cases that come into the criminal courts who are never told off, happenings never referred to. They are summed up in the phrase "Acting on information received, I——" The business of a detective is to secure his prisoner and give evidence, not to tell how it was done.

"Still no news from Liverpool," said the superintendent as he left the court with Green. "I begin to wish I'd sent you down there. That woman has got the knack of vanishing."

"Yes," agreed his lieutenant, producing a well-worn brier and pressing the tobacco down with a horny thumb. "And yet people think we've got an easy job. Lola knows her business, and I'm open to bet she'll not be found before she wants to be found."

Foyle chuckled at this enunciation of rank heresy. Only a veteran of Green's experience would have dared question the ability of Scotland Yard to maintain a scent once picked up. The superintendent did not take the pessimism too seriously. In theory it is not difficult for one person to disappear among forty millions, but to remain hidden indefinitely, in the face of a vigorous, sustained search by men trained to their business is not so simple in practice.

"You've got a habit of looking on the worst side of things," he laughed. "I've never known us want any one we knew badly but what we got 'em at last. Besides, Blake's down there, and he's a good man. He's got a personal interest in running her down now."

"H'm," commented Green, in the tone of one not entirely convinced, and lapsed into a stolid silence which would have irritated some men, but merely amused the superintendent.

They separated at the door of Foyle's room at headquarters, and an impatient detective-sergeant, whose duty it was to weed out callers, promptly headed Heldon Foyle off.

"A man's been waiting to see you, sir," he said. "He refused to give his name, but said he had some important information which he would only give to you personally. He wouldn't hear of seeing any one else."

"Yes, of course. They've all got important information, and they all want to see me personally—or else the Commissioner. Well, where is he, Shapton? Show him in."

"I can't. He's gone, sir. He'd been waiting here half an hour or so when he was taken away by Sir Ralph Fairfield."

If he had not been trained to school his feelings, Heldon Foyle might have started. As it was, he picked up a pen and toyed idly with it. The man, who had a fair idea that his news was of importance, was a little disappointed.

"I see," said the superintendent. "What happened?"

"Why, Sir Ralph asked to see you and was shown into the waiting-room with the other man. They both seemed a bit upset, and the first chap's jaw dropped. 'So you are here,' says Sir Ralph, a bit angrily. 'Yes, sir,' says the other, and he had become sulky. 'This is my man,' says Sir Ralph to me, 'and I would like a word with him alone, if you don't mind.' Of course, I left 'em alone. In a quarter of an hour they came out, and Sir Ralph told me that there had been a little misunderstanding—that neither of them wished to see you after all."

"Thank you, Shapton," said the superintendent, resting his chin on his hand. "Ask Mr. Green if he can spare a moment, will you?"

In the interval that elapsed before the chief inspector came, Foyle did some quick thinking. Criminal investigation is always full of unexpected developments, and this seemed to him to offer possibilities. It was clear to him that a man had come to Scotland Yard to give some information, and that Fairfield had followed post-haste to shut the man's mouth. For the moment he put aside all speculation as to the baronet's motive. The question was, who was the man he had taken away? Who would be likely to know something? It must be some one intimately associated with the baronet, some one who probably lived with him. There was only one man—his servant.

The line of reasoning became clear. What would a servant know which he would recognise as of obvious importance? Fairfield might have received a letter from Grell, but if he did not wish to let the police know of it, he would scarcely have been careless enough to leave it where his man might have obtained access to it. The second solution was more probable. Suppose Grell had paid a visit to Fairfield and the man had recognised him?

Foyle was not led away by theories. He knew that the most ingenious deductions often led to failure. But in this case he had nothing to lose by putting the matter to the test. He had not taken off his hat or coat, and when Green came in he was ready to put his plan into execution. In a few words he told what had happened and his conclusions.

"What I want you to do, Green, is to ring up Fairfield and get him out of the way on some pretext. Keep him here till I come back. I'm going to have a talk with that servant. If you can't get him on the 'phone, you'll have to go round and get him out somehow. I want a good man whom he doesn't know to come to the Albany with me. Give me a chance to get there before you ring up."

"Very good, sir. Maxwell is free. I'll tell him you want him."

In a quarter of an hour Maxwell, an unobtrusive, well-dressed man, had taken up his station and was casually loitering where he could see all who entered or emerged from the Albany. Foyle himself was out of view, but he had a fine sight of his subordinate. Ten minutes elapsed. The well-dressed detective dropped the stick he was listlessly swinging between his fingers, and Foyle knew that Sir Ralph had risen to the bait. It remained to be found out whether the servant was still in the chambers.

Waiting just long enough for Fairfield to get a reasonable distance away, Foyle was whirled up in the lift to the baronet's rooms. His first pressure on the bell remained unanswered, but at a second and longer ring he was confronted by the upright figure of Roberts. The servant gave a little gasp of astonishment as he saw his visitor.

"Sir Ralph is out, sir," he stammered.

"Yes, I know," said the detective pleasantly. "I did not come here to see Sir Ralph, but to see you. You know who I am. Let me in, won't you?"

He pushed his way into the place and entered the sitting-room, Roberts following closely behind him. The man was evidently very nervous. Foyle sat down.

"Now, my man, you needn't feel nervous. Your master won't be back yet awhile. You came to my office to see me this morning, and left before I got back. I've come to see what this important information you've got for me is."

Roberts shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rubbed his hands together nervously. His eyes never met the superintendent's. "It's all a mistake," he asserted unsteadily. "I—I——"

"That won't do, my man," said Foyle brusquely. "You know something which it is important I should know. Sir Ralph has told you to keep your mouth shut. But you're going to tell me before either of us leaves this room. I want you to speak now. Never mind about thinking of a lie."

His blunt manner had its effect. Roberts drew himself together. "Right, sir, I'll tell you what I came about. You're a gentleman and won't see me a loser. Sir Ralph, he promised to look after me if I kept my mouth shut."

It is no part of a detective's duty to allow personal feelings to interfere with his business. Foyle's contempt for a man who was ready to bargain to betray his master's confidence was sunk in his content at so easily obtaining his ends. "That will be all right," he answered. "You'll be paid according to the value of your information."

"Then it's this, sir," blurted out Roberts. "Mr. Grell, whom you thought was murdered, is not dead. He came here an hour or two ago, and was in with Sir Ralph for quite a time."

"Oh." The detective smiled incredulously, and snapping open his cigar-case selected a smoke, nipped off the end, and deliberately struck a match. "You've got hold of some cock-and-bull idea. I suppose you've deceived yourself with some fancied resemblance."

"It was Mr. Grell himself, I tell you," averred the servant earnestly. "Don't I know him well enough? He was roughly dressed and had shaved off his moustache, but I'm certain of it. He came up by the lift as large as life with a note for Sir Ralph. I didn't notice him much at first, because I thought he was a street messenger. But when Sir Ralph told me to bring him in I had a good look at him. I knew I had seen him before, but the change in him threw me off for a while. It was only after I left him with Sir Ralph that it came on me like a shot. I knew that there was a reward out in connection with the murder, and I came on to you at once. If you had been in I should have told you all this then, but Sir Ralph came after me and promised to pay me well to keep my tongue between my teeth. But right is right, sir, and I hope you'll do what you can for me. For I'll take my dying oath that the man I saw here was Mr. Grell."

With calm, expressionless face Foyle listened. His inferences were justified. It would be necessary to keep Roberts from gossipping, and for that reason it was policy to discount the importance of his information. The detective puffed a cloud of smoke to the ceiling.

"You seem pretty sure of yourself. I think you've made a mistake, but we'll go into the thing fully and you'll get whatever your information is worth. How long was this chap in with your master?"

"I don't know. I didn't see him come out. He had been in there about ten minutes when I started out to see you."

"Right. Now I'm going to wait here till your master comes back. You can deny that I have questioned you, or that you have told me anything, if you like. I shan't give you away. Where's the telephone?"

With a little breath of relief the servant conducted Foyle to an inner room and pointed out the instrument. A few seconds sufficed to put the superintendent in communication with Green, and in a quick, low-voiced conversation he was told what device had been practised to keep Sir Ralph away.

"I'll let him go now, then?" said Green, and his superior assented.

When Sir Ralph Fairfield returned to his chambers, he found Heldon Foyle seated before the fire engrossed in a paper and with his feet stretched out to the cheerful blaze.

"Good morning, Sir Ralph," said the detective, rising. "I just dropped in as I was near here to tell you how things were progressing, and to see if you'd got any news."



CHAPTER XLII

But that his breath came a little faster, Fairfield gave no sign of the perturbation that Heldon Foyle's presence caused him. That the summons to Scotland Yard had been a pretext to get him out of the way was now obvious. The only question was whether Roberts had divulged anything to the detective during his absence.

It was quite impossible to allow Grell's visit to him to be used in the investigation. That was not in the bargain with Foyle. Innocent or guilty, his friend had trusted him, and to use that trust to hound him down would savour of treachery. There was no doubt that Foyle knew something. He wondered how much.

He returned his visitor's greeting. "Always glad to see you, Mr. Foyle, though I'm afraid there's nothing fresh so far as I am concerned. I see my man's made you comfortable. There's been a mistake somewhere. I've been to Scotland Yard waiting for you."

His head was in the shadow and Foyle could not see his face. He could not be sure whether the words were a challenge, and made a little gesture with his hand.

"That's a pity," he said. "Things have got muddled up somehow. However, now we're here it's all right. By the way, we narrowly missed laying our hands on Grell an hour or two ago."

Although he was staring placidly into the fire he did not fail to note the quick start that the baronet gave. And it was not a feigned start. Fairfield could not understand this indirect method of attack.

"What!" he stammered. "You nearly arrested him?"

"It was touch and go," said Foyle languidly. "Some of our men got on his trail and followed him until he reached here. They never saw him come out."

"Do you mean to say that Grell has been here—here to-day?" demanded Fairfield, putting as bold a face on the matter as was possible.

"I do," said Foyle quietly.

"Without my knowledge?"

Heldon Foyle shook his head, and thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets faced the baronet squarely. "That's what I want to know. Was it without your knowledge, Sir Ralph?"

Fairfield met that searching gaze unflinchingly. There was a touch of hauteur in his tone when he replied, "Do you suggest that I am hiding him?"

Had Foyle not been sure of his facts the manner of the baronet might have convinced him that he was in error. As it was, he ignored the evasion. It was essential to know whether the fugitive had been supplied with any money and whether he had given any indication of his plans. "I feel quite certain that you have had a talk with him lately," he said. "I thought you were going to do what you could to help us clear up this mystery. Why deny a fact that is plain?"

Sir Ralph clenched his teeth. It was clear that Foyle was certain of his ground; that it was no use any longer trying to throw dust in his eyes. "Well?" he demanded icily. "I suppose I am not entirely a spy at your disposal, Mr. Foyle. I am like most men, I have my limits. I prefer to remain master of my own actions."

"I should be the last to dispute it," said Foyle, with a slight bow, "or to take advantage of the good-nature that has led you to assist us hitherto. Of course you could not foresee that Grell would come to you, and you naturally do not want to take advantage of his confidence. But we already know of his visit, so there is no breach of trust there. All I ask is that you should simplify the matter by telling me what occurred at your interview. Perhaps you have forgotten, Sir Ralph, that there is a punishment for assisting a man to escape—by lending him money or otherwise. That is merely for information. It is not a threat."

"Thank you," said the other. "It would make no difference to me whether it was a threat or not." He remained in thought for a moment. The fact that Grell had entered the place and apparently got clear away had led him to believe that the police knew nothing of the visit, that the only risk of the interview being disclosed lay with Roberts. If the detectives had really been close on the heels of the fugitive, as Foyle said, it could do no harm to admit the truth. His promise to say nothing could hardly be considered to cover the contingency. "Has Roberts been talking to you?" he asked abruptly.

"Roberts?" repeated the superintendent, with a puzzled frown. "Oh, of course, he's your servant. I asked him one or two questions, but he didn't seem to understand me."

The answer was so quick, so naturally given, that any suspicion that remained in Fairfield's mind was lulled. He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, for what it is worth, I don't mind admitting that Grell did come to see me. All he wanted was money. He is frightfully hard up, and apparently the operations of your people have harassed him dreadfully."

"Did you let him have any money?"

Fairfield shook his head. "No; I absolutely refused unless he would come out of concealment and try to justify himself. With that he went. He was here less than twenty minutes or half an hour."

The detective played with his watch-chain. "Yes, yes. I don't see that you could have done anything else. I suppose you made no suggestion to him?"

"In what way?"

Gently stroking his chin, Foyle answered in a soft voice, "The other day a man came to see me. He was a man of high social standing and had fallen into the clutches of a gang of blackmailers. He wanted us to take action, but he absolutely refused to go into the witness-box to give evidence. I pressed him, pointing out that that was the only way in which we could bring home anything against them. 'It will ruin me,' he declared. 'Is there no other way it can be put a stop to?' I replied that we were helpless. 'What can I do?' he cried. 'Is the thing they accuse you of true?' I asked. He flushed and admitted that it was. 'Well,' I said, 'if you ask my advice as a man and not as an official, I should meet with an accident.' But he would not take my advice," he concluded, with a keen glance at the baronet, on whom the parable was not lost.

"I did suggest that way out," admitted the baronet reluctantly. "He wouldn't hear of it. And Grell is not a coward."

"He gave no hint of where he was going when he left you?"

"Not the slightest."

Foyle picked up his hat. There was nothing more of value to be gained by prolonging the interview. "I am very much obliged to you, Sir Ralph," he said. "Perhaps you will keep in touch with me in case anything arises. Good morning."

Long ago Foyle had made up his mind as to the probable course that would be taken by Robert Grell. The man was evidently driven into a corner, or he would scarcely have taken the enormous risk of going to see Ralph Fairfield. There remained two things, the detective reasoned, which he might now do. Penniless and without help, he might try to plunge back into the obscurity of underground London, or he might try some other friend or acquaintance. But every person he confided in would increase his risk. Fairfield was his closest friend, and yet he had declined to lift a finger. Would he go to men he was less intimate with—or would he endeavour in person to enlist the aid of the woman he was to marry?

No one knew better than Heldon Foyle the danger of jumping to conclusions. Inferences, however clever, however sound they may seem when they are drawn, are apt to lead one astray. The detective who habitually used the deductive method would spend a great deal of his time exploring blind alleys. Yet Foyle, with the unostentatious Maxwell at his right hand, hurried in the direction of Berkeley Square with a hope that his theory might not be ill-founded.

A little distance away from the Duke of Burghley's house he crossed the road and spoke to a cabman who was lounging on the seat of his motionless vehicle. Curiously enough the constables patrolling the beat did not order that particular cabman away to a rank, although he had been there for several hours, creating a technical obstruction.

"Have you seen a man call over the road lately?" asked the superintendent.

"No, sir," answered the cabman alertly. "The only person has been a messenger-boy with a note for Lady Eileen Meredith. He told me it had been handed in at the district messenger office at Victoria. Lady Eileen came out shortly afterwards and walked away in the direction of Piccadilly. Phillips has gone after her."

"Right. Report to the Yard directly she returns, and keep a sharp look-out."

"Very good, sir," said the cab-driver, and Foyle turned away to mount the steps of the house. The footman who answered the door replied that both his Grace and the Lady Eileen were out. He could not say when they would return. The superintendent tapped the step impatiently with the tip of his well-polished American boot, and his brow puckered. Finally he produced a card.

"I think I had better wait," he said. "My business is important." That procured his admission into the house, but he had no idea of waiting in idleness in one of the reception-rooms. Eileen had received a note which had taken her out—he shrewdly suspected that it was from Grell. It was conceivable, though it was not probable, that she might have left it about. It was for him to learn the contents of that note if possible. "Look here, old chap," he said, with an assumption of familiarity that flattered the frigid footman, "I want to see Lady Eileen directly she comes in, and I don't want to be announced." He winked as though from one man of the world to another. "You understand, don't you?"

The footman grinned knowingly as he thrilled all over with the knowledge that the Scotland Yard man was making a confidant of him. It was one of Foyle's ways always to attach as many people as he could to his object. He had an extensive acquaintance with waiters and hotel hall-porters.

"Yes, sir, I think I can arrange that," said the footman. "I can put you in her own sitting-room, and she'll most likely go straight there when she comes back."

"That's the ticket," said Foyle. "I like a man who's got brains." A sovereign changed hands. "Now, if you ever hear anything, perhaps you'll let me know. Drop into my office when you're by and have a chat and a cigar."

"I will that, sir," said the man. "Thank you, sir."

Heldon Foyle was left alone in the room. He sat quite still for a little, but his eyes were busy. At last he rose and aimlessly paced the floor once or twice. In the grate a dull fire was burning, and a few fragments of blackened paper lay on the dying coals. Here and there a word stood out in a mouldy grey against a black background. Foyle did not touch the paper till he had read:—

"... both ... minent ... sufficient money to ... ade for ... Petrov ... guesse ... fear ... timately exposure must come. If ... open cheque ... ther ... gold, and bring ... God's sake ... desperate."

Foyle's lips puckered into a whistle as he transferred the words to his pocket-book. He dared not touch the fragments till he had done so, and every moment he feared that some draught might destroy the whole thing. His keen professional instincts were saddened by the impossibility of saving what might be an important piece of evidence. Under favourable circumstances there might have been some chance of retrieving and preserving it by blocking the chimney to prevent a draught and then carefully sticking the burnt fragments with gum on to transparent paper. But that method was impossible. Foyle tried gingerly to rescue the fragments, but a burst of flame frustrated him, and a moment later they were destroyed.

An ejaculation of annoyance escaped his lips, and he turned to the dainty little desk at another portion of the room. It was locked, but that was a matter of little consequence. Like most detectives, Foyle carried a bunch of keys rather larger than are to be found in the possession of the ordinary man, and the fourth that he tried fitted.

The neat interior slab of the desk was clear and tidy. One or two letters of no consequence reposed in an inside drawer, and these the superintendent replaced. A footstep outside caused him hurriedly but noiselessly to close the desk and resume his seat, sitting idly with crossed legs. But the interrupter passed, and he returned to the desk. From a recess he drew out a cheque-book and examined the counterfoils of the used cheques with interest. The last counterfoil was blank.

"Ah!" he muttered, with a jerky little nod of satisfaction, and turned his attention to the blotting-pad. A few minutes' close inspection and he drew the top sheet away and, rolling it up, placed it in the breast-pocket of his overcoat. Again he closed the desk and glanced at his watch. A touch at the bell summoned the footman.

"I don't think I'll wait, after all," said Foyle. "Time's getting on, and I've several things to attend to."

"Shall I tell Lady Eileen you called, sir?"

"Oh yes, certainly. Tell her I'll call back about six this evening."

In deep thought Heldon Foyle sauntered away from the house, and Maxwell joined him as they turned a corner. The superintendent said nothing till they reached Piccadilly. Then he tore a sheet of note-paper from his pocket-book and handed it to his companion.

"Cut along up to the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank, Maxwell. A cheque, No. A834,076 for L200, signed Burghley, has been presented this morning. Find out who cashed it and how it was paid. If there were any notes, get their numbers and come straight on to me at the Yard."

The superintendent swung himself on to a passing motor-bus and selected a seat on top, with his brain still revolving the events of the morning. Once he took out a pencil and drafted a description of Grell's appearance and dress as Roberts had seen him. As a matter of course, he intended that to be telegraphed and telephoned to his men all over London. It was as well not to neglect any precaution.

He was passing through the little back door which leads to the quarters of the C.I.D. when he came face to face with a young man bearing all the appearance of a clerk who was just passing out. "Hello, Phillips!" he exclaimed. "You've been after Lady Eileen, haven't you? What luck did you have?"

"I've just reported to Mr. Green, sir," was the answer. "She walked to the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank and took a taxi when she came out. I followed in another cab, but my man punctured a tyre in the Strand and I missed her."

Foyle frowned and gripped the man's arm. "Come upstairs with me and tell me all about it. What number was her taxi?"

"County Council LD 6132, police 28,293. Mr. Green has got the name of the driver from the Public Carriage Department, and I was just going out to see if I could get hold of him."

"Right; you get along, then. And don't forget that if you miss people like that again, accident or no accident, there'll be trouble."

Green was waiting for his chief. A question elicited the steps he had taken to get hold of the driver of the cab, from whom some account of Lady Eileen's movements might be expected. An all-station message had been flashed out, asking that the cab, wherever it was sighted, should be sent, unless still carrying a passenger, to Scotland Yard. There was little chance of the driver neglecting to obey the summons.

"It's unlucky that our man failed to keep her in sight," said Foyle. "I'll bet a hundred to one that she's arranged to meet Grell somewhere. However, there's nothing to do now but to wait. Just look here, Green. Here is something I picked out of the lady's fire. Help me and we'll see if we can reconstruct the entire message."

He laid his pocket-book containing the string of disconnected words on the desk as he spoke. The two bent over them.



CHAPTER XLIII

There is no person in London easier to find than a cab-driver whose number is known, for the supervision of the Public Carriage Department is exhaustive. Yet, even so, it was some hours before the man Foyle sought was reported as being on his way to Scotland Yard.

He came at last, wonder and a little alarm in his face as he was brought into the room where the superintendent and Green sat. There are many rules the infringement of which will imperil a licence, and he was not quite sure that he might not have broken one.

Foyle motioned for the door to be shut. "So you're the cab-driver we're looking for, are you?" he said. "You're William White?"

"Yes, sir," answered the man. "That's my name."

"All right, White. There's nothing to be alarmed about. You picked up a lady outside the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank this morning. Just sit down and tell us where you took her."

"Oh, that is it?" said White, relieved to find that it was merely an inquiry and not an offence that he was called upon to answer for. "Yes, sir. I did pick up a lady there. I took her along to the General Post Office, and waited while she went in. Then——"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Foyle. "How long was she in there?"

"Ten minutes as near as a touch, according to the way the taximeter jumped while I was waiting. When she came out she asked me if I could take her to Kingston. I said yes. And she told me to stop on the Surrey side of Putney Bridge, because she expected to pick up a friend, sir. Well, he was waiting there for us——"

"What kind of a looking man was he?"

"A tough sort of customer. Dressed like a labouring chap. I thought it was a queer go, but it wasn't none of my business, and ladies take queer fancies at times. She didn't say nothing to him that I could hear, but just leaned out of the window and beckoned. He jumped in and off we went. We stopped at a tailor's shop in Kingston, and the man went in while the lady stayed in the cab."

"What was the name of the shop?"

"I didn't notice. I could show it to any one, though, if I went there again."

"Very well. Go on," said Foyle curtly.

"Well, in a matter of a couple of minutes out comes the chap again and spoke to the lady. She got out and paid me off. He went back into the shop and she walked away down the street."

"And that's the last you saw of them, I suppose?" asked the superintendent, with his left hand rubbing vigorously at his chin.

White shook his head. "No, sir. I went away and had a bit of grub before coming back. As I passed Kingston railway station, I saw the lady standing by a big motor-car, talking to the man seated at the wheel. I thought at first it was the chap I had driven down, but I could see it wasn't when I got a closer look at him. He was better dressed and held himself straighter."

"Ah! Could you describe him? Did you notice the number of the car?"

The driver scratched his head. "A sort of ordinary-looking man, sir. I didn't take much stock of him. The car was A 1245—a big brown thing with an open body."

"Right you are, White," said Foyle with a nod of dismissal. "That will do for now. You go down and wait in the yard with your cab, and we'll get some one to go with you to Kingston. And keep your mouth shut about what you've told us."

When the door closed behind the man, his eyes met those of the chief detective-inspector. "You'll have to go to Kingston, Green. It's a hot scent there. You've got the numbers of the notes that Maxwell got from the bank. Find out if any of them were changed at the tailor's. They've taken precautions to blind the trail. What I think happened is, that she telephoned from the General Post Office to some motor-car firm to send a car from London to Kingston railway station, under the impression that it would be less risky. He went into the tailor's place to arrange for a change of clothes, and she dismissed the taxi as a measure of precaution. It was a piece of luck that the man noticed the motor-car, but we can't be absolutely certain of the number he gave. He had no particular reason to remember it. Anyway, I'll send it out to the county police, and ask them to keep their eyes open. Meanwhile, I'll set some men to work to see if any of the big garages have sent a car to Kingston, and get the number verified. If you 'phone me when you get down there, I'll let you know how things stand."

Green had his hand on the handle of the door, but suddenly something occurred to him. "Do you think she's gone with him, sir?"

Heldon Foyle made a little gesture of dissent. "I don't think it likely. It would double the danger of identification. But we can soon find if she's gone back to her home. I told Taylor, who is watching in Berkeley Square, to report when she returned." He touched a bell and put a question to the man who entered.

"Yes, sir," was the reply. "He rang up half an hour ago. You told me I wasn't to disturb you. He reported Lady Eileen Meredith had just gone in."

"There you are, then, Green," said Foyle. "That point's settled. You get along. I wish I could come with you, but it won't do for me to leave London just now, and goodness knows where you may have to finish up. Good-bye and good luck."

When Green had gone, Foyle gave a few instructions to cover the points that had arisen, and walked to Sir Hilary Thornton's room. The Assistant Commissioner looked up and proffered a cigar. "Think of the angels," he said. "I was just wondering how things were going."

"Things are straightening out a bit," said the superintendent. "It's been a busy day, and it's not over yet." And, puffing a ring of smoke into the air, he told in bare, unadorned fashion the events of the day. "It has been a narrow thing for Grell," he concluded. "Even now, I fancy we shall get him. Green's as tenacious as a bull-dog when he's got something to take hold of."

With his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, Sir Hilary strode to and fro across the room. "It's time we got a bit forward," he said. "The adjourned inquest will come on again soon, and we shan't be able to keep the question of identity up our sleeves any longer."

"There's a week yet," answered Foyle. "I don't think it will much matter what is revealed then."

The Assistant Commissioner came to a halt. "You're not a man to be over-confident, Foyle," he explained. "Do you feel pretty certain of having Grell under arrest by that time? I've not interfered with you hitherto, but for heaven's sake be careful. It won't do to make a mistake—especially with a man of Grell's standing."

Heldon Foyle lifted his shoulders deprecatingly. "It all depends upon an idea I have, sir. I am willing to take all responsibility."

"You're still convinced that Grell is guilty?"

"I am convinced that he knows all about the murder," answered Foyle ambiguously. "With the help of Pinkerton's, I've traced his history back for the last twenty-five years. He's had his hands in some queer episodes in his time before he became a millionaire. There are gaps which we can't fill up, of course, but we're pretty complete. There was one thing in his favour. Although he's known toughs in all corners of the world, he's never been mixed up in any dirty business. And as he's carried out one or two political missions for the United States, I suppose he's had to know some of these people. To-morrow or the next day, I expect to have the records of both Ivan Abramovitch and Condit. It will all help, though the bearing on the murder is perhaps indirect."

"You're talking in parables, like a detective out of a book," said Thornton, with a peevishness that his covering smile could not entirely conceal. "But I know you'll have your own way when you don't want to be too precise. How do you regard the burnt paper? Is it important?"

"It would have been if I could have saved it," said the detective regretfully. "As it is, it's of no use as evidence in a court, for it only rests on my word. I keep pegging away at it, but I'm not certain that I can fill it out as it should be. But you never know your luck in our trade. I remember a case of forgery once. The counterfoil of a tradesman's paying-in book showed L100 with which he was not credited in the books of the bank. The cashier was confident that his initials in blue pencil on the counterfoil were genuine. Yet he was equally certain that he had not received the money. The tradesman was certain that he had sent the money. There it was. I was at a dead end. One day, I noticed a little stationer's store near the tradesman's office. In the window were some blue pencils. I walked in and bought something, and casually remarked that I shouldn't have thought there was much demand for those pencils. 'Oh, schoolboys buy 'em,' said the old woman who served me. 'There's old ——s' son over the way. He buys half a dozen at a time.' Well, off I went to the grammar school that the boy was attending, and had a talk with one of the masters. He admitted that the lad was exceptionally clever at drawing. I was beginning to see my way, so had the boy called out of his class into a private room. 'Now, tell me, my boy,' I said, 'what did you do with the money you stole from your father on such and such a date?' The bluff worked. He turned pale, and then admitted that he had forged the initials, taken the money, and gone on a joy-jaunt for a week while he was supposed to be staying with an aunt. There was the luck of the idea coming in my head through looking at those pencils."

"Have you been looking at blue pencils to-day?" asked Thornton with interest.

"Something of the kind," admitted Foyle with a smile, and before he could be questioned further had vanished.

He had said nothing of the blotting-paper incident, for there were times when he wished to keep his own counsel even within the precincts of Scotland Yard itself. He did not wish to pin himself down until he was sure. In his own room, he unlocked the big safe that stood between the two windows, and taking out the roll he had abstracted from Lady Eileen's desk, surveyed it with a whimsical smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Once he held it to the mirror, and the word "Burghley" was plainly reflected.

"That ought to do," he murmured to himself, and, replacing it in the safe, swung the heavy door to.

The jig-saw puzzle to which he had likened criminal investigations was not so jumbled as it had been. One or two bits of the picture were beginning to stick together, though there were others that did not seem to have any points of junction. Foyle pulled out the dossier of the case, and again went over the evidence that had been collected. He knew it practically by heart, but one could never be too certain that nothing had been overlooked. He was so engaged when Mr. Fred Trevelyan was announced.

"Fred Trevelyan? Who is he?" he asked mechanically, his brain still striving with the problem he wished to elucidate.

"That's the name he gave, sir," answered the clerk, who ranked as a detective-sergeant. "I should call him Dutch Fred."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A call from Liverpool, sir," said the man in the private exchange. "Mr. Blake wants you. Shall I put him through?"