A few minutes elapsed before Foyle heard the voice of the man who had been outwitted by the Princess Petrovska. "Is that Mr. Foyle? This is Blake speaking. We've got on the track of the lady again. She'd been staying at a boarding-house pretending she was a member of a theatrical company. A local man spotted her and came back to fetch me to make certain of her identity. But she must have got wind of it somehow, for she's hired a motor and slipped off. We're after her now. She's only got half an hour's start, and we've wired to have the main roads watched. I expect we'll have her in an hour or two."

The superintendent coughed. "Get along then, Blake. And don't smoke when you're on the job this time. Good-bye."

He replaced the receiver and returned to his neglected cup of tea. Things were evidently stirring. Was it altogether chance, he wondered, that Petrovska had chosen the day to make a move? Strange coincidences did happen at times, yet there was a possibility that her movements were correlated to those of Grell. Had the two managed to communicate? Well, at any rate he could rely on Blake and his assistants to find out whether she had received letters or messages. The matter was out of his hands, and it was not his habit to worry about affairs which he could not influence.



CHAPTER XLIV

That Heldon Foyle had come so closely on the heels of Grell's message was something of a shock to Eileen. She had not supposed that the detectives would be so quickly again on the trail. Her heart beat a little quicker, but her face gave no sign as she drew off her gloves while the footman told her of the superintendent's call at six.

When she was alone she sat with her long, slender hands gripping the arms of her chair, her grey eyes reflecting the light of the fire as she stared abstractedly into its depths. That she had done her utmost to help Grell escape she did not regret; she rather triumphed in the fact. Foyle could know nothing of that—at the worst he could only suspect. Her precautions had been too complete. She was confident that she and Grell were the only two people who knew of the day's happenings. In any case, she argued to herself, it was better to see Foyle. She had come to respect his acumen, and fear he might draw an inference not too far from the truth if she denied him an interview. Besides, she asked herself, what had she to fear? Grell was safely away, and she could trust not to betray herself.

At six o'clock to the minute a footman—whose wooden face gave no indication of the fact that a moment before he had confidently informed Foyle in a stage whisper, "She seemed pretty cheerful when she came in, sir—been sitting all alone since"—brought her a card. Then Foyle was ushered in—calm and unruffled as though he were merely making a social call. She returned his bow frigidly.

"I hope you will not consider my call inconvenient, Lady Eileen," he said suavely. "I considered it of importance that I should see you as soon as possible."

She crossed her knees and regarded him composedly. "I am sorry I was out when you called this morning. Had I known, I should have waited for you."

The detective admired the manner in which the girl carried off a difficult situation. She spoke quite indifferently, and yet he knew that she was entirely on her guard. He smoothed the top of his hat with his hand.

"Sometimes an appointment with one's bankers is a thing one can't put off," he said blandly.

A tiny spot of colour burned in each of her cheeks and she flashed one quick look at the detective. This was an attack in flank which she had not expected. "My bankers?" she lied instantly, "I have not been to my bankers'."

"I beg your pardon," he said, his voice keyed to a curious inflection. "I was under the impression that you had—that, in fact, you changed a cheque for L200 made payable to bearer."

She tried to hide a new feeling of alarm under a smile. "Well, and if I did?" she challenged. "That is, of course, my private business, Mr. Foyle. You surely haven't come to cross-examine me on my habits of personal extravagance?"

"Partly," he countered. "Shall we be plain with one another?"

She rose and stood with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, looking down on him. "By all means let us be plain. I am only a girl and I cannot altogether follow the subtleties of your work."

"We are not such dreadful people really," he smiled. "We try to do unpleasant work as little unpleasantly as possible. As you say, you are only a girl, and although perhaps uncommonly clever, you are—if you will pardon me—a little apt to let your impulses outreach your reason. More than once I have tried to advise you as I would my own daughter. Well, now, here is some more advice—for what it is worth. Tell me exactly what you did between the time you went out this morning and the time you came in—whom you saw and where you went. Will you do that?"

The tick of a small clock on the mantelpiece was loud. Eileen contemplated the tips of her boots with interest. Then a little ripple of laughter shook her. "You are a dreadfully suspicious man. If it interests you, then, you can have it. I went to the bank, and from there took a cab to my dressmaker's, where I paid a bill and was fitted for a new gown. I went on and did some shopping at various places. Shall I write out an exact account for you?"

If it had been the detective's design to entrap her into a series of falsehoods he might easily have done so. But there was no object in pursuing that course. He met her ingenuous gaze with a little lift of his shoulders. "This is mere foolishness, Lady Eileen. I want to give you the opportunity of stating frankly what occurred from the moment you got Robert Grell's letter this morning. You know this story of the dressmaker would fall to pieces the instant we started making inquiries to verify it."

"So I'm on my defence, then?" she said abruptly. He nodded and watched closely the changing expression of her features. "I have done nothing that gives you any right to question me," she went on defiantly. "And I am not going to submit to any more questions. Good morning. Can you find your own way out?"

She caught at her skirt with one hand and with her chin tilted high in the air would have withdrawn haughtily from the room. She was afraid that his shrewd, persistent questioning and persuasion might end in eliciting from her more unguarded admissions. He had reached the door before her, however, and stood leaning with his back against it and his legs crossed and his arms folded. She stopped sharply and he divined her intention.

"I shouldn't touch the bell if I were you," he said peremptorily. "It will be better for both of us if I say what I have got to say alone."

The decision in his tone stopped her as her hand was half-way to the bell-push. She paused irresolute, and at last her hand dropped at her side. Foyle moved to her, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and half forced her to a seat. After all, with all her beauty and her wits she was but a wayward child. Her eyes questioned him and her lips quivered a little.

"Now," he said sternly. "Tell me if your father signed the cheque you cashed, or whether you put his signature to it yourself?"

Her lips moved dumbly and the room seemed to quiver around her. Finely as she had held herself in control hitherto, she was now thoroughly unnerved. She covered her face with her hands, and her frail figure shook with dry sobs. Foyle waited patiently for the outburst to pass. Suddenly she sprang to her feet and faced him with clenched hands.

"Yes, I did sign it," she blazed. "My father was out, and I wanted the money at once. He will not mind—he would have given it to me had he been here."

He checked her with a deprecating movement of his hand. "Don't excite yourself, please," he said soothingly. "I felt bound to let you see there was a serious reason why I should press you to give an account of your movements to-day. Sit down quietly for a moment."

He waited patiently while she resumed her seat. He had foreseen that while she was on her guard he was unlikely either by threats or coaxing to induce her to speak. The hint of forgery had been deliberately intended to throw her off her balance. She could not know that her blotting-pad had betrayed that and more. Nor could she know that without the evidence of her father and the bank officials—neither of which was likely to be willingly given in the circumstances—she was not amenable to a criminal charge. "Will you tell me now why you were so anxious to obtain that money—why you could not wait for an hour or two until your father returned? Don't hurry yourself. Think. Remember that I shall be able to check what you say."

"I—I——" She choked and gulped as if swallowing something.

"Will it help you if I tell you that two of the notes which were given in exchange for the cheque were changed at a tailor's shop at Kingston, where a rough-looking man bought an overcoat and a suit of clothes?"

"You—know—that?" she gasped, the words coming slowly one by one from her lips. The accuracy of his knowledge, and the swiftness with which it must have been gained both astonished and astounded her.

"I know that," he repeated. "And I know more. I know, for instance, that Mr. Grell went to Sir Ralph Fairfield before applying to you. Did he tell you that?" He waited, but she made no answer. "I know too that he has left London. You know where he is making for. Where is it?"

Slowly she shook her head. "I can't tell you," she cried vehemently. "You cannot force me to. He is an innocent man. You know he is. You can expose me—tell all the world that I have been guilty of forgery if you like—you will not get me to lift a finger to hound him to his death."

Foyle had failed. He knew it was of little use pushing the matter further. He picked up his hat and gloves and mechanically passed a hand over his forehead. But there was one thing that had to be done before he left. "I will not trouble you any further now," he said in a level voice. "I may take it you will tell your father of the—the banking episode. That will relieve me of a rather painful task."

"I will tell him," she said dully.

"Then good evening, Lady Eileen."

"Good evening."

The superintendent drew on his gloves as he passed out of the street door. "She knows her own mind, that girl," he said to himself. "She won't give away a thing. Either she's very much in love with him, or——"

He rounded the corner into Berkeley Street.



CHAPTER XLV

The first part of the commission given by Heldon Foyle to Chief Detective-Inspector Green was simple to execute and cost him no effort of ingenuity. A straight drive through into Kingston, a call at the tailor's shop where Grell had re-fitted himself with clothes, and a few minutes' conversation with the assistant who had served him, gave him all the facts concerning the appearance of the man he was following.

"I'd better take these two notes away," he said, beginning to fold up the flimsies. "I shall want you to keep a note of the numbers, in case you are called upon to give evidence."

The tailor scratched his head doubtfully, and cast a glance on a policeman passing slowly on the other side of the street. He was beginning to suspect the tall stranger who asserted he was a police officer, and so calmly appropriated money. He was wondering whether, after all, it might not be an ingenious scheme of robbery. He had heard of such things, and the composure of the detective did not comfort him. Green had given no proof of his identity beyond his bare word.

With some mumbled excuse the tailor stepped to the door and beckoned to the policeman. With much volubility he explained the situation and his suspicions. The constable listened gravely. He was very young to his duties, and remembered the cautions that had been given him not to accept any one's word where actions were suspicious.

"He didn't show you a warrant-card, did he?" he asked. "All right, Mr. Jones, you leave this to me." And he marched importantly into the shop.

Green, who had just lit a well-worn brier pipe, and was waiting for the assistant to return in order to pay him the value of the notes, smiled grimly at the apparition of the constable in uniform. He guessed exactly what had happened.

"This is the man?" asked the police officer. The tailor nodded, and he went on, addressing Green, "What's this about you taking money and pretending to be a police officer?" He had produced an official notebook and looked very important as he loomed in the doorway, gazing sternly at the detective. "Don't answer any questions unless you want to. You know I shall have to take anything you say down in writing, and it may be used as evidence against you."

The situation had a piquant humour that tickled Green. The constable was strictly within his duty, as he had been called in, but the pomposity of his manner betokened that he was very, very young in the service. In a deliberate silence the detective felt in his pocket for a warrant-card that would clear up the mistake. A moment later he was wildly searching in all his pockets without success. For the first time in a lifetime in the service he must have been careless enough to leave it at home.

He flourished a number of envelopes inscribed "Chief Detective-Inspector Green, New Scotland Yard, S.W.," but the knowing look of the young constable was emphasised by the cock of the eyebrows. Green never carried official documents except when he was obliged to.

"That won't do, old chap," said the constable, in the manner of one well used to the ways of the criminal fraternity. "You don't come that on me. You might have written those envelopes yourself. You'll have to come along."

If the letters had failed to impress him, Green felt certain that his visiting-card would be of little use. Since he had decided to visit the police station in any case, it did not much matter. It was humiliating, in a way, but it did not much matter.

"All right, my man," he said authoritatively. "I'll see the station officer. Send for a cab."

"Cool hand, isn't it?" whispered the policeman to the tailor. "See how he's dropped trying to pull off his bluff on me. Just hop out and see if you can find a cab. I'll keep an eye on him."

So it was that a high official of the Criminal Investigation Department reached an outlying police station under the conduct of a young constable whose swelling pride was soon reduced to abject misery as the divisional detective-inspector, who was leaning on a high desk and chatting with a station-sergeant, sprang forward to greet the suspect.

"They 'phoned through from headquarters for me to meet you here, sir. There's one or two messages come through for you."

The constable's jaw dropped. "Is this man—this gentleman from the Yard?" he gasped.

The local man stared from Green to the policeman, and from the policeman to Green. Some notion of what had happened began to occur to him. "What the blazes——" he began, but the chief inspector cut him short.

"That's all right," he said. "I was careless enough to come out without a warrant-card, and this young man has made a little mistake. Don't you worry about it, my lad. Only, next time, don't put so much zeal into a doubtful case. Cut along back to your beat and give that chap this." Some sovereigns chinked. "Now, Mr. Malley, I'll be glad to have those messages, and to put a call through to Mr. Foyle."

He followed Malley into an inner room, and the local man handed him a couple of messages which had been telephoned to Scotland Yard by the county police, and one sent by Foyle immediately after his interview with Dutch Fred, giving amplified particulars of the car. Green made his report over the telephone and then, replacing the receiver, turned to Malley. "This last message shows he's got a good start. He passed through Haslemere an hour ago. Can you get away yourself, or have you got a good man you can lend me?"

"That's all arranged, sir," was the answer. "Mr. Foyle said that I was to go with you if you wanted me."

"Right. We'll have to rake out a good car somewhere. You see to that. We'll pick up any fresh news at the county police station at Haslemere. This man may have been stopped by now."

Malley was already speaking into the telephone. He paused for a moment. "Will a chauffeur be necessary, sir? I could drive if you liked."

"So much the better. Tell 'em to hustle the car along here. It'll be just as well to have plenty of petrol."

A matter of ten minutes or a quarter of an hour before the motor-car was at the police station. Malley slipped into the driver's seat, and Green coiled up his long body by his side. With a jerk they started, and in a little were out on the broad Portsmouth road, while a thin, penetrating rain was powdering the windscreen. Presently Malley increased the speed and, though it was well outside the legal limit, Green made no remonstrance.

Stolid and unimaginative as he might seem to casual acquaintance, the chief inspector usually worked with tremendous enthusiasm and doggedness. As Foyle had said, he was as tenacious as a bull-dog. He was determined to catch Grell, if human wit and perseverance could do it. And he chafed to think that the start had been so long.

Dusk had fallen before they entered Haslemere, pausing only to ask their way to the local police headquarters. Short as the run had been, they were both chilled to the bone, and their overcoats were sodden with rain. There was no thought of a halt, however. A man ran bare-headed out of the police station door as though he had been waiting for them.

"Mr. Green?" he asked.

"That's my name," answered the chief inspector.

"Your people have been on the 'phone to us, and so have the Hampshire Constabulary at Petersfield. Nothing has been seen of the car you want since it passed through here, apparently on the way to Petersfield. We didn't know you wanted it held up till too late, but one of our bicycle patrols remembered having seen it go by. Ten minutes later, we got word. Both Petersfield and Midhurst have had men out waiting for it. No luck at all. It seems to have vanished clean off the face of the earth. You'll probably meet some of our bicycle patrols if you're going on. We've been searching the by-roads."

Green bit back an expletive. The prospect of a night's search in the wet and wind and rain did not appeal to him. There seemed no help for it, however. "Much obliged," he said. "We'll watch for your men. Drive on, Mr. Malley." And they slipped forward into the gloom.

"There's too much of the needle in a haystack business about this to suit my taste," he complained when once they were clear of the town. "That car might have taken any one of fifty side-turnings. Anyway, we'll go on to Petersfield and see whether they've had any luck. Slow down a bit. There's not much object in speed now."

Presently their big acetylene lights picked out a caped policeman standing in the centre of the roadway, his arm upraised for them to halt. They could see his bicycle resting on the grass. As they stopped, he advanced and, glancing at the number on the bonnet, scrutinised the two detectives sharply.

"It's all right, constable," said Malley. "We're not the people you're looking for. We're from London, and we're looking for the same man."

The policeman, satisfied, stepped back with a clumsy salute and a "Beg pardon, gentlemen," and once more they were off. Ten minutes later, another cyclist, pedaling furiously, rode into the zone of light cast by their head-lamps. A hail brought him to a stop, and Green put a question, explaining who he was.

"We've found it, sir," exclaimed the man excitedly. "It's in a lane at the other side of the little village called Dalehurst, a mile farther up. It had been run into a ditch and left there. There's no sign of the man who was in it. I'm just riding in to report. There's a sergeant looking after it."

"Never mind about reporting, yet," said Green. "You come back with us and show us where this car is. I'll take all responsibility."

They travelled on at a pace that permitted the cyclist to keep alongside, and presently, turning sharply to the right, picked their way along a narrow roadway which, overgrown with grass and flanked by densely-wooded country, was as desolate and lonely a spot as could be conceived. The car bumped and swayed over ruts and hummocks, and Green touched his companion's sleeve to bid him stop.

"We shall get on quicker and safer if we walk," he said, and dropped stiffly to the ground. Malley followed suit, and swung his arms vigorously about his body to restore some degree of warmth to his cramped frame.

"We'll carry one of the headlights with us," said Green. "Faith, it's muddy."

Their boots made a soft, squelching noise as they tramped on under black shadows of the trees for a hundred yards. The track of the previous car was embedded plain on the soft earth. And here and there were footmarks recently made which the three avoided confusing, on Green's order, by keeping to the side of the roadway. The wheelmarks ended abruptly round a slight bend, where they came upon the car itself. It was tilted at an acute angle, with its leading front wheel embedded in the low ditch. All the lights had been extinguished, and the rear of the car, with the number, was picked out in high relief against the dark background by the acetylene light carried by Malley.

"Who's that?" growled a husky voice, and a police-sergeant stepped into the section of light.

"It's all right, sergeant," said the man who had acted as guide to the detectives. "It's only two gentlemen from London who are engaged on the case. I met them and brought them along."

The chief inspector had taken the lamp from Malley and was throwing its light on the ground around the car. Then he stepped into the car itself and began a minute inspection of rugs and cushions. The search was only a matter of habit, and it revealed nothing. He stepped down and pointed to some footprints. "Any one been here but you two men?" he asked. "Here, both of you, press your right feet here. That's it." He contemplated the marks with careful deliberation for a while, and then, stepping wide, followed a series of footmarks leading up the lane.

"Our gentleman walked pretty fast," observed Green. "See how plain the heel and toe marks come out, while the rest of the impression is blurred. Hello! what's this?"

The road had terminated abruptly in a bridle-path leading apparently to the interior of the wood, and the foot-prints had become more and more indistinct with the transition to ground covered with fallen leaves. They had failed entirely as Green spoke, and he flung the light about in an effort to pick them up again. Then something met his eye on a spike of blackthorn, and he carefully picked off a thread of brown cloth. "We're done for to-night, I'm afraid," he said. "He's gone off the track and got into the wood. We'll get back, Malley, and try to find a room or somewhere to sleep near here. Then we can turn out with daylight. But first of all we must 'phone to the Yard. By the way, sergeant, do you know whose estate we're on?"

"I'm not quite sure," growled the officer. "It used to be Colonel Sawford's, but I believe he sold it to that man who was killed in London a little while back. Grell was his name, wasn't it?"

"Really? Thank you, sergeant. Come on, Malley. Perhaps we can find the village post office and use the 'phone."



CHAPTER XLVI

It was to Heldon Foyle's own house, and not to Scotland Yard, that Green telephoned eventually. Clad in a bright blue dressing-gown, the superintendent listened, with a few non-committal interjections, until his lieutenant had finished.

"On his own land, eh?" he said at last. "What do you make of it, Green? Is it genuine, or has he done it just to throw us off, and doubled back on his trail? It looks as if he intended us to find that motor-car."

Green disagreed. "It's a deserted, blind road made for wood-cutters years ago. It was only a chance that a constabulary sergeant found it. He may have left it there for the time being, relying on coming back to hide it properly out of sight. And this is an ideal place for any one to keep close. It would take a thousand men to search the wood anything like thoroughly."

"There's some sort of house on the estate, I suppose?" demanded Foyle.

"Yes, I've not been up to it, but I'm told it's a big, rambling old place called Dalehurst Grange, approached through sloping meadows and backing on to the woods. It would be easy for a man to see any one in the house coming from the front and slip away into the undergrowth. Malley's gone up to have a look at the place. We'll need a search warrant to go over the place, but I don't think it'll be any good."

"Nor I," agreed Foyle. "It'll have to be done some other way. You've asked the county constabulary to make inquiries and to watch the railway stations round about, of course? All right. You run things on your own discretion, and if you or Malley see me just shut your eyes. Now give me your address and report to the Yard as usual."

The superintendent lit a cigar after he had replaced the receiver, and thoughtfully toasted his slippered feet before the fire. Presently he rose, turned over the leaves of a time-table, and discovering that Dalehurst possessed no railway station, discarded it in favour of a gazetteer. From that he found that the village was four miles from Deepnook, and the time-table again consulted showed him that he could reach the latter place in a couple of hours from Waterloo.

Before he went to bed that night he packed the kit-bag that had accompanied him in most of his wanderings all over the globe. Other things than clothes found a place in its depths, among them a jemmy, some putty, and a glazier's diamond. The superintendent had an idea that they might be more effective than a search warrant.

Yet, as he turned the key, he realised that the energy and the efforts of both himself and Green might be wasted. There was a possibility that it was a blind trail—that Grell had contrived the whole thing as a blind, and had slipped out of the net that had been drawn for the brown motor-car. The thought induced Foyle to telephone through to headquarters to order a fresh warning to be wired through to the police at all the ports. He believed in leaving as little as possible to chance.

The night staff was still on duty when he reached Scotland Yard the next morning. The detective-inspector in charge stared at a corpulent man clad in a Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers of brown tweed, whose heavy boots clanged along the corridor. The hair, moustache, and eyebrows of the intruder were a shiny black, and a little trimming with scissors and a judicious use of a comb and brush had altered the appearance of the superintendent's face as completely as the clothes had altered his figure.

He was no believer in stage disguises. False beards and wigs were liable to go wrong at critical moments. He nodded reassuringly to the inspector and placed his kit-bag on the floor.

"It's all right, I'm Foyle right enough. I'm thinking of a change of air for a day or two," was all the explanation he vouchsafed. "I want to just run through my letters and catch the nine-ten train from Waterloo. I'll leave a note over for Mr. Mainland, who'll take charge while I'm away."

He went methodically through the heavy morning's correspondence, pencilling a few notes here and there on the letters, and sorting them into baskets ranged on the table as he finished. Precisely at a quarter to nine he touched a bell, and gave a few brief instructions. Then, carrying his bag, he descended the flight of steps at the front entrance and walked briskly along the Embankment. As he crossed the footway of Hungerford Bridge, a biting wind swept up the river and he shivered, warmly clad though he was. One of his own men passed without recognising him, and the superintendent smiled to himself.

There were five minutes to spare when he sank into the corner seat of a smoking compartment, and composed himself with a couple of morning papers for the journey. But he read very little. There was much to occupy his mind, and as the train slipped out of Waterloo station he tossed the periodicals aside, crossed his knees, blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and with a little gold pencil made a few notes on a visiting-card. London slipped away, and an aeroplane flying low came into his line of vision as they passed Weybridge. The open pasture meadows gave place to more wooded country, and he placed his pencil back in his pocket as they ran into Deepnook.

A solitary porter shuffled forward to take his bag. Foyle handed it over. "Is there a good hotel in this place?" he asked.

"There's the Anchor, sir," answered the porter. "It's a rare good place, an' they say as 'ow Lord Nelson stayed there once. They aren't very busy at this time of the year. Only one or two motorists stopping there."

"What's good enough for Nelson is good enough for me. Is it far, or can you carry that bag there?"

The porter hastened to reassure the gentleman. It was a bare three minutes' walk. Might he ask if the gentleman was staying long?

Foyle wasn't sure. It depended on how he liked the country and on the weather. "By the way," he went on, with an air of one faintly curious, "didn't Mr. Grell, who was murdered in London, have some property this way? Dalehurst Grange or something? I suppose you never saw him?"

"That I 'ave," asserted the porter, eager to associate himself, however remotely, with the tragedy. "I've seen him time and again. He always used this station when he came down from London—though that wasn't often, worse luck. He was a nice sort of gentleman, though some of the folks down here pretended that 'e was not what you'd call in proper society, because he was an American. But I always found 'im generous and free-'anded. And to think of 'im being done to death! My missus says she's afraid to go to bed afore I go off duty now. It was a great shock to us, that murder."

He spoke with a solemn shake of the head, as though he lived in daily dread of assassination himself. "You see the last train through, I suppose?" asked Foyle irrelevantly.

"Yes, sir. The ten-nine up. As I was saying, what with these 'ere murders and things——"

"Have they shut the Grange up, or is there still some one living there?"

"Well, they got rid of most of the servants. I believe there's still a 'ousekeeper there and a maid, as well as a gardener. I remember when Mr. Grell first took over the place, Bill Ellis—'e's the blacksmith—ses to me——" He entered into lengthy reminiscence, to which Foyle only paid casual heed. He had learned what he wanted to know. Grell, if he had left the neighbourhood the preceding night, had not done so from Deepnook, where he would have infallibly been recognised.

The porter was still talking when they passed under the branching arms of the giant chestnut that shaded the courtyard of one of the prettiest of the old coaching inns of England. Foyle slipped a shilling into his guide's hand, and registered himself as "Alfred Frampton—London."

Local gossip is often of service to the man who knows how to lead it into the right channels. The superintendent decided that an hour or two might be profitably wasted in the lounge, where half-a-dozen men were sitting at a small table before a huge, open fireplace. He ordered a drink and sat a little apart, relying on their provincial curiosity to presently drag him into the conversation. By the time the lunch he had ordered for one o'clock was ready, his habit of handling men had stood him in good stead. "Mr. Frampton of London" had paid for drinks, told half-a-dozen good stories, laughed at a score of bad ones, asked many innocent questions, and deftly given the impression that he was a London business man in search of a few weeks' rest from overstrain. Moreover, he had gained some knowledge of the lay of the country and acquaintances who might be useful. One never knew.

The afternoon saw him tramping through the picturesque countryside, with its drooping hills and wooded valleys. He moved as one careless of time, whose only object was to see the country. Once he stayed to talk with a stone-breaker by the side of the wood; once he led a farmer's restive horse and trap by a traction engine. On both occasions he contrived to drop a good deal of information about himself, and his reasons for being in that part of the country. That it was false was little matter. The best way to stop local gossip is to feed it. A mysterious quiet stranger would be speculated about, the amiable business man from London with a love of chat was quite unlikely to arouse suspicions.

Sooner or later Grell, if he were in the neighbourhood, would learn of the presence of Green and Malley. His attention would be concentrated on what they were doing. Foyle, acting independently, was looking for an opening to attack from the rear. He had a great opinion of Grell's capacity for getting out of awkward situations.

He sauntered through Dalehurst, stopping at a little general store to buy some tobacco and gather more gossip. The village shop invariably focuses village gossip. A garrulous old dame talked at large with the affable stranger, and when the superintendent emerged he was certain that Chief Inspector Green and those acting with him had succeeded in maintaining an adequate discretion in regard to the events of the preceding night.

As Foyle passed on, he observed a man hurrying towards him and recognised Malley. Abruptly the superintendent turned his back and, leaning his arms upon a low stone wall, seemed lost in contemplation of a little churchyard. When the divisional inspector had passed on, Foyle resumed his walk.

It cost him some little trouble to find the road in which the motor-car had been left derelict. The sodden earth still retained wheel tracks, and it needed but a glance to show that the car had been removed but a few hours before. He walked on till he came to the place where Green had found the strip of brown cloth, which was fairly plain to find, for the footsteps of Green and the other police officers when they followed the trail ceased there as Grell's had done.

Here he drew a small pocket-compass from his waistcoat pocket, and pressing a spring released the needle. As it came to rest he thrust aside the hazel bushes and plunged in among the undergrowth. Now and again he consulted the compass as he walked leisurely forward, wet branches brushing his face and whipping at his clothes. For the brief portion of the way a keeper's path facilitated his progress, but at last he was forced to abandon this and return to the wilder portion of the wood. He was making a detour which he hoped would lead him to the back of Dalehurst Grange.

At last he could see a clear space ahead of him, and in a little, sinking on his knees on a bank, was peering downhill to an old-fashioned, Jacobean manor-house, from whose chimney smoke was lazily wreathing upward. Between him and the house a meadow sloped for a hundred yards, and the back of the house was bounded by an irregular orchard.

"Pity I didn't think to bring a pair of field-glasses," muttered Foyle, as his eyes swept the place. "I can't tell how those mullioned windows are protected. Well, I may as well make myself comfortable, I suppose."

A little search rewarded him with a great oak tree, and in the fork of a branch twenty feet high he found an easy seat from which he could watch the house without any great risk of being seen himself. Immobile as a statue, he remained till long after dusk had fallen and a steady light appeared at one of the windows. It was, in fact, ten o'clock, and the light had disappeared when he dropped quietly to earth and, with quick footsteps, began to cross the meadow to the orchard.

Under the fruit trees the detective moved slower and held his stick before him, softly tapping the ground as though he were blind. He had not taken half-a-dozen steps before the stick touched something stretched about a foot from the ground. Stooping, he groped in the darkness.

"A cord," he muttered. "Now I wonder if that is merely a precaution against burglars or——" and, stepping over the obstacle, he went on cautiously feeling his way. Twice more he found cords stretched across the grass, so that an unwary intruder might be tripped up, but his caution enabled him to avoid them.

The walls of the house loomed before him. He stepped to the nearest window and tested it. It was fastened tightly, nor could he see inside. Foyle had no taste for the haphazard, and would have liked to be certain of the run of the house. But one window was as good as another in the circumstances. He worked deftly with a glazier's diamond for a while, and at last removing one of the diamond panes of glass thrust his hand through and undid the latch. The window swung open, and the superintendent sat down on the grass underneath and swiftly unlaced his boots.

In another two minutes he was inside the house, and pulling an electric torch from the capacious pocket of his Norfolk jacket, he swept a thin wedge of light about the room. It was furnished as a sitting-room, but there was no reason for examining it minutely. Foyle pulled open the door and moved into a thickly carpeted corridor, which made his stockinged feet almost unnecessary.

Door after door he opened and noiselessly examined with the aid of his single beam of light. By the time he had come to a finely carved, old oak staircase, he had a rough idea of the plan of the house as far as the ground floor was concerned. The upper floors demanded more caution, for there the servants might be sleeping.

The first door that Foyle tried after the landing was locked. Pressing his ear to the keyhole, he could hear the deep, regular breathing of some one within. Twice he tried keys without success. At the third attempt the bolt of the lock gave. He pushed the door back and there was a crash as a chair which had been wedged behind it was flung to the floor.

A woman shrieked, and Foyle drew back into the shadow of the landing, cursing his luck. Then there came the sound of rapid footsteps. The superintendent drew himself together, and his muscles grew taut as a man came running. A light blazed up as the man passed through the doorway. Foyle caught one glimpse of a square-faced man fully dressed and acted rapidly. He dashed forward and his hand twined itself round the other's wrist.

"Mr. Robert Grell, I believe," he said suavely.



CHAPTER XLVII

When Heldon Foyle leapt forward, his whole body had been keyed for a struggle. Whatever resources Grell might have in the house the detective stood alone, so far as he knew. It was possible that Green might have arranged to have the place watched, but, on the other hand, it was unlikely that he would do more than have the roads patrolled and the railway station warned. To have watched the Grange so effectively that no one could get away from it would have taken a score or more of men, and even so the position would have made it impossible for them to have remained hidden.

All this Foyle reckoned on. He had hoped to find Grell and to catch him unawares, perhaps asleep. That project had failed, and when the man had replied to the woman's scream, Foyle had deemed the boldest course the safest. Grell had wrenched himself round, the fist of his free hand clenched, but he made no attempt to strike. An elderly woman sat up in bed, surprise and terror in her face. Just behind Foyle stood two maids in their night attire, shivering partly with cold, partly with fright, their eyes wide open.

"That is my name," answered Grell, speaking as quietly as Foyle himself. "I can guess who you are. If you will wait just a moment while I assure these women that there is no need for alarm I will come down and talk with you. You had better go to sleep again, Mrs. Ellis. And you girls get back to bed. This is a friend of mine."

The maids retired reluctantly and Foyle linked his arm affectionately in that of Grell. The alarm in the housekeeper's face did not abate.

"But who—who is he?" demanded Mrs. Ellis, extending a quivering finger in the direction of the superintendent.

Grell lifted his shoulders. "Mrs. Ellis is my housekeeper here," he explained to Foyle. "The maids didn't know I was in the place. It's all right, Mrs. Ellis. I'll just have a chat with this gentleman. Don't you worry."

He closed the door as he spoke. Foyle's right hand was resting in his jacket pocket. "I may as well tell you, Mr. Grell," he said, "that I am armed. If you make any attempt at resistance——"

"You will not dare to shoot," ejaculated Grell smilingly. "Oh, I know. We're in England, not in the backwoods. Come downstairs and have a drink. I don't want you to arrest me until we've had a talk. By the way, may I ask your name?"

Despite himself the superintendent laughed. If Grell was a murderer he certainly had coolness. But there might be some trick in the wind. He was keenly on the alert.

"Foyle is my name," he answered—"Superintendent Foyle. I am afraid I shall have to refuse that drink, and as for the talk, I may presently determine to arrest you, so anything you say may be used as evidence. Of course you know that."

"Yes, I know that. No objection to my having a drink, I suppose, even if you won't join me?"

"Sorry to seem ungracious, but even that I can't allow."

"Ah. Afraid of poison, I suppose. Just as you like. Well, here we are. If you will let go my arm I assure you I will neither attack you nor try to escape. Then we can sit down comfortably."

They had entered a room whose walls were lined with books and pictures, apparently the library. Foyle shook his head at the other's request. Of course it might be all right, but the man was a suspected murderer. He would accept no man's word in such a case. "I am afraid it is impossible, Mr. Grell," he said gently. "I am anxious not to seem harsh, but you see I am alone with you and my duty.... If, however, you will allow me, I have a pair of handcuffs."

Wide as his experience had been he could not recall a notable arrest taking place in this way. He had fallen in with Grell's mood for many reasons, but he chuckled to himself as he made the polite suggestion of handcuffs. Grell did not seem to mind. His self-possession was wonderful. Foyle reflected that it might be reaction—the man was possibly glad the tension was over.

"By all means, if it will make you easier," he said. Foyle slipped the steel circlets on his wrists, not with the swift click that is sometimes written of, but with deliberate care that they should fit securely, but not too tightly. The juggling feat of snapping a pair of handcuffs instantly on a man is beyond most members of the C.I.D.

Grell selected a chair and Foyle, watchful as a cat, sat by him. "May I ask what you intend to do now?" queried the former.

"Wait till daylight and then send one of the maids with a message to the nearest police station," replied Foyle. "Would you like a cigar? I can recommend these."

He proffered his case and Grell took one. He held it between his fingers with a whimsical smile. "Do you mind cutting it and giving me a light?" he asked. "It's rather awkward with these—er—ornaments."

The superintendent did as he was requested and Grell puffed luxuriously. Foyle remained silent. Although he was aching to put questions he dared not. "Do you really think that I killed Harry Goldenburg?" asked Grell suddenly.

"I don't know," confessed the superintendent non-committally. "I think you may have."

"Yes. That's a pity," said Grell, lifting his cigar to his mouth. "This affair must have cost you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Foyle. And it's all wasted, because, of course, I had nothing to do with it."

"I want to know," said Foyle, a bit of American vernacular that came from his lips unconsciously.

"Tell me why you never announced that I was alive?" asked Grell. "You'll have to do it, you know."

"Well, there's no harm in admitting now that one idea was to make you think that we were deceived, and so to throw you off your guard."

"And it did until you got hold of Ivan. Well, you've made a mistake this time, Mr. Foyle. There were finger-prints on the dagger with which Goldenburg was killed, eh?"

Foyle inclined his head. His blue eyes were alight with interest which he made no effort to conceal. He half guessed what was coming, but he found Grell's ways disconcerting and could form no certain judgment. Certainly Grell did not behave like a guilty man—that is, a man guilty of murder. But neither did he behave like an innocent man. He was too totally unconcerned with the gravity of his position.

"Yes, there were finger-prints," he said. "I have a photograph of them in my pocket if you would like them compared now."

"With mine? That's what I was about to suggest. You'll find some writing-paper and ink in the desk behind you. I suppose they will do."

The prisoner smiled as he saw Foyle carefully shift his chair to guard against any sudden rush, before turning his back. He was a moment preparing the materials and then placed a blank sheet of paper on a little table in front of Grell. "Will you kindly hold out your hands?" he said. As Grell did so he smeared the tips of the fingers of the right hand with ink. "Now press your fingers lightly but firmly on the paper. Thank you."

He brought a little standard lamp closer, and under its rays studied the two sets of prints closely. He did not need a magnifying-glass to see that none of Grell's finger-marks agreed with the two that were clear on the dagger. Grell leaned back in his chair as though the matter were one of complete indifference to him.

"Does that satisfy you, Mr. Foyle?" he asked at last.

The superintendent nodded as their eyes met. "It satisfies me that you did not actually kill the man," he said steadily. "I'll own I'm not surprised at that. I believe if you had killed him you would have been man enough to have stayed and faced the consequences. You will observe that I have not formally arrested you yet. But I do believe that you know all about the crime—that you were perhaps an eye-witness."

For the first time during the interview Robert Grell lost hold of his self-control. His fists clenched and the steel of the handcuffs bit deep into his wrists as he momentarily forgot that he was handcuffed. There was a meaning in Foyle's tone that he could not fail to understand. He caught at his breath once or twice and his temples flamed scarlet.

"Speak plainly now!" he cried hoarsely. "What are you hinting at?"

Slowly Heldon Foyle began to tear the sheet of paper bearing Grell's finger-marks into minute fragments. He was calm, inscrutable. "I thought I made myself clear," he replied. "To make it plainer I will ask you if a man, famous, rich, and with an honourable reputation, flies on the eve of his wedding-day, assisted by his valet, hides himself in a low part of London, and associates with doubtful characters, whose friends abduct and drug police officers, who uses, in short, every effort to avoid or to hamper justice—has not some strong reason for his actions? Is it not plausible to suppose that he is an accessory either before or after the fact?"

Grell sighed as if in relief, and, stooping, picked up his cigar, which had fallen on the carpet. He had recovered his calm. "You are a better judge of evidence than I am," he said unemotionally. "Personally, I don't think the facts you have mentioned would convict me of anything but eccentricity. Who is this Harry Goldenburg, anyway? Beyond the fact that he's my double I know nothing of him. That's certainly a coincidence, but why on earth I should conceal anything I know is beyond me."

"You're talking nonsense, Mr. Grell, and you know it," said Foyle, with a weary little gesture. "There's too much to be explained away by coincidence. We know who Harry Goldenburg was, and that there was a strong motive for your wishing him out of the way." He leaned over a little table and his face was close to Grell's. "You can only delay, you cannot prevent justice by keeping your mouth shut."

The firm lines of Grell's mouth grew obstinate. "I shall stick to my story," he said. And then, with a return to his former flippancy of manner, "You're a clever man, Mr. Foyle. I never realised till you and your men were on my heels how hard a time a professional criminal must have. Even now I am not clear how you knew I was down here. When I found the police in charge of the motor-car I had left I thought they were merely guarding it as a derelict. I did not guess that you knew I had escaped from London in it."

"A mere question of organisation," said Foyle. "As a matter of fact, we know most of your movements from the time you left Sir Ralph Fairfield's flat to the moment you separated from Lady Eileen at Kingston. By the way, she made some money over to you. You may care to know that that was got by forgery."

Surprise had leapt into Grell's face as the superintendent drily recounted his movements. It was succeeded by a flash of fury at the last words. "Be careful, sir," he said tensely. "You need not lie to me."

"It is the simple truth. Lady Eileen got a note from you asking for money. She had none, and her father was out, so she signed a cheque in his name and cashed it personally."

Grell's face had become grey and he buried it in his hands. His shoulders shook and Foyle could understand how hardly he had been hit. To have had to appeal to the girl for monetary help was bad enough. To find that she had committed a crime to help him was to add an anguish to his feelings that he had not known before. Somewhere in the house a clock struck midnight, the slow, deep strokes reverberating heavily.

"She did that—for me!" said Grell, lifting his head, haggard and wan. Then, as a thought occurred to him, "She is not under arrest?"

"No. I had her word that she would inform her father."

Grell made no answer. He stared moodily in front of him. The superintendent had no desire to break in on his reverie. He walked across the room, picked up a magazine, and sat down, again facing his prisoner, while he idly turned over the pages. Presently Grell's head drooped forward.

He was asleep.



CHAPTER XLVIII

The hours dragged wearily with Foyle. The soft breathing of the sleeping man as he rested with his head pillowed on his arms was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. The superintendent himself dared not sleep. He tried to read, but the magazines failed to interest him. He got up and quietly strolled about the room, examining the bookcases with incurious interest.

His thoughts were busy. Apart from all the other facts, Grell's manner was more than sufficient confirmation of the fact that he was holding something back—something vital to the success of the investigation. The superintendent had a very shrewd idea of his reasons. Grell was a strong man—a man likely to hold to his own line at all costs. He had already proved that no personal considerations would move him.

The superintendent reviewed the situation impartially, his brow furrowed, his lips tight pressed together. He was as certain as though he held the other's signed confession that Robert Grell had it in his power to say who killed Goldenburg. How would he break through his silence? For, come what might, he felt that Grell's place was rather in the witness-box than in the dock. That he preferred the dock was proof of the strength of the motive which actuated him. No amount of persuasion, Foyle knew, would make him open his lips. Disgrace by the fear of a public trial had failed to move him. If he was to be induced to tell his secret it must be by strategy.

Heldon Foyle held his own code of ethics in his profession. In his own mind he held that all things which were legal were permissible in facilitating the ends of justice. Grell could, if he were so minded, give sworn evidence on what Foyle could only suspect. Grimly the superintendent resolved that in a contest of will he would win.

A gentle tap at the door broke his train of reflection, and the white face of the housekeeper peered in. Her eyes rested first on the sleeping man, but his attitude concealed the handcuffs. She turned a half-frightened glance on Foyle.

"Excuse me, sir. I couldn't sleep, so I dressed, and thought I would look in to see if Mr. Grell or you would like anything. Perhaps a cup of coffee——"

"No, thank you," said the superintendent. "By the way, now you're here you'll perhaps tell me whether you expected Mr. Grell's arrival. Didn't you think he was dead?"

She advanced a little into the room, closing the door behind her. "That I did, sir," she answered timorously. "I couldn't make it out when I got his telegram from Liverpool. It gave me a shock."

"From Liverpool?" repeated Foyle slowly. "So he sent a wire from Liverpool, did he? Would you mind if I had a look at it?"

He could see the hesitation in her face and went on: "See here, Mrs. Ellis, there has been a murder, though, fortunately, Mr. Grell was not the victim. I am interested in the matter, and you will be acting in his interests if you show it to me."

"I don't know what to do, I'm sure," quavered the woman irresolutely. "I was supposed to have burnt it. Hadn't I better wake him up, and then he can let you look if he likes?"

A strong hand pushed her back as she would have endeavoured to rouse Grell. "I shouldn't worry him if I were you," said Foyle. "You may take it that I have a right to see that message."

He spoke authoritatively. Her hand fumbled beneath her apron and she produced a buff-coloured envelope. The detective took out and unfolded the wire. He read—

"Mrs. Ellis, Dalehurst Grange, Dalehurst.—There has been mistake of identity. Am safe and well. Shall be down this evening, but time uncertain. Please have room ready. Let no one know you have heard from me. Burn this.—R. G."

The detective refolded the telegram and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. His mind dwelt more on the significance of its dispatch from Liverpool than on the message itself. The Princess had been at Liverpool. It was a plausible presumption that she had sent the wire and that she therefore must have been in touch with Grell.

"Yes, I guess you must have been a bit startled when you got that," he said. "Did Mr. Grell give any explanation when he came?"

"Yes, in a way. He got here an hour or two after it came and must have let himself in with his own key. He walked in on me while I was doing some sewing in my own sitting-room. He said that the police had asked him to keep out of the way, because if it was known that he was alive it might hamper them. He told me not even to let the maids know that he was here, and he came straight up to this room and locked himself in. I had made a bed ready, but he has slept on the couch over there." She nodded towards a big settee under the window. "He said the bedroom might do for a lady friend he was expecting who might arrive at any moment. He told me, too, that it might be necessary to leave suddenly."

The old lady had, it was evident, made a good guess at the identity of her questioner or she would not have answered so freely, in spite of the detective's authoritative manner. Foyle put one or two further questions to her and then dismissed her with a quiet word of thanks. He began to see that he had struck harder than he knew when he had descended on the house in the guise of a burglar. Dalehurst Grange was, of course, a rendezvous, and the Princess Petrovska was on her way to join Grell. The superintendent rubbed his hands together as he thought of the surprise in store for her.

Dawn was breaking over the woods when Robert Grell woke with a shiver. He stood up and stretched himself. "Good morning, Mr. Foyle," he said genially. "I'm afraid I dropped off, but I've had rather a wearying time lately. Now, what's the programme? I suppose a bath is out of the question, or"—with a glance at his fettered hands—"even a wash may be dangerous. Faith, you don't believe in running risks!"

Foyle smiled in response to the banter. "Only a fool runs risks when there's nothing to be gained. But I'm prepared to run one if you like to fall in with a plan I've thought out. You're not under arrest yet. You needn't be if you care to undertake to give evidence when the inquest is resumed. For you are at present the only person who can clear up the whole thing. Mind you, it would depend on what came out at the inquest whether we should then arrest you. I can give no guarantee about it. But if you accept, all that will be necessary is to quarter a couple of my men with you for the time being."

Grell walked to the window and stared out upon the wooded country. Presently he wheeled upon the superintendent with a short laugh. "My dear man," he cried, "you will harp on that one point. I appreciate your offer of comparative liberty, but if I accepted I should do so under false pretences, because my evidence will be that I know nothing."

"You can't stop my knowing the truth," answered Foyle equably. "Sooner or later I shall be able to prove it. And if you persist it will make things much more unpleasant for you."

The other said nothing for a while. A struggle was taking place in his mind that was indicated with a nervous twitching of the fingers. His shoulders were bent and his head bowed. Foyle waited patiently. Outside a bird started a "jig-jig-jig—br-brr" that set the teeth on edge. The trees, stirred by a newly sprung up breeze, rustled uneasily.

"No, it's no good," said Grell at last. "I know nothing."

The detective rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Will you tell me if you had any visitors on the evening of the murder?" he inquired, blandly ignoring the other's refusal. He noticed a quick flash of surprise pass over Grell's countenance and drew his own conclusions. Swiftly a new thought came to him. "Did Goldenburg come to you alone?"

The prisoner remained silent, and Foyle knew that he was considering the advisability of answering. "I don't see why you shouldn't know that, if you want to. He came with a friend of mine. She left shortly afterwards."

"She?" Foyle seized on the word. "It was a woman, then?"

Grell bit his lip. He had said more than he meant to. The superintendent frowned thoughtfully, and his active brain was beginning to see things more clearly. It was a full five minutes before he spoke again as one making an assertion rather than asking a question.

"That would be Lola, of course." His blue eyes met Grell's frown with an ingenuous stare. "This is beginning to get clearer, Mr. Grell. Goldenburg was blackmailing you, eh? Maybe he had letters which you wouldn't have liked Lady Eileen to see—what?"

An ejaculation came from Grell. The detective directed his gaze to a picture opposite him, and continued, as though thinking aloud—

"Now I come to think of it, was Goldenburg a relative of yours? The likeness is amazing. Well, suppose, for the sake of argument, he was. And Lola—where does Lola stand? Was it to her, by any chance, that the letters were directed? Was she merely a friend, or did she stand in closer relationship to either of you?"

Grell yawned ostentatiously, but although Foyle had been apparently looking away from him he had followed the effect on the other's face of every one of the seemingly casual questions he had put.

"I am afraid I am boring you. It's a bad habit, thinking aloud."

"It does seem futile," agreed Grell. "You surely have little need to exercise yourself about these things."

"Ah, you think so? I am beginning to think that something more is necessary. It may be—of course, this is only for the sake of illustration—that the dagger was handled by some one after the murder had occurred. However, let the subject drop. Perhaps your housekeeper will get us some breakfast while one of the girls runs into Dalehurst."

While waiting for a reply, he rang the bell and gave some directions, with a note to the housekeeper. The breakfast that she ultimately served up was a credit to her skill as a cook. Both men ate with an appetite that the unusual nature of the situation did not destroy, though Grell found the handcuffs troublesome.

The superintendent laid down his knife with a sigh of content.

The sound of a motor-car horn was borne faintly in upon them. In a few minutes the housekeeper ushered Green and Malley into the room. The chief inspector returned Foyle's greetings and flung his heavy overcoat on to a chair. His eyes wandered over the prisoner with a little pardonable curiosity. Grell bore the inspection with a smile.

"I congratulate you, sir," said Green. "We'll have the thing fairly straightened out in a day or two now."

"I hope so," said Foyle. "Mr. Malley, will you stay with this gentleman for five minutes? I want to speak to you in another room, Green."

He led the way to the little sitting-room, through the window of which he had effected an entrance. A look of comprehension spread over Green's face as he noticed the missing diamond pane. "Malley told me he passed you in the village yesterday. You got our man quicker than I should have thought possible in the circumstances. How did he take it?"

The superintendent gave a brief recapitulation of the steps he had taken since he left London. Green rubbed his grizzled head and followed the recital with keen appreciation. It did not occur to him to feel hurt that Foyle had acted independently.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "I've got a search-warrant in my pocket, and we were coming over this house to-day. I didn't anticipate much profit, because he could have easily slipped away into the woods. I got the county constabulary to put a cordon of patrols round about, and hoped to drive him into their hands. But it was a slim chance. However, we've got him now."

"Yes, we've got him now," agreed Foyle. "There only remains the Petrovska woman, and we'll have her to-day. Listen."

He told of what he had learned from the housekeeper, and they discussed the probabilities of the woman reaching Dalehurst Grange. If she managed to escape Blake and the other detectives who were hot-foot on her trail there was little doubt but that she would walk blindly into a trap. That she had not already reached the Grange and departed Foyle was satisfied, although she had had ample time to travel from Liverpool. As Green phrased it, "she might almost have walked it." But the exigencies of the pursuit might have brought about delay if she attempted to confuse her track. If Foyle had been able to get in touch with Blake he would have called him off in order to let her proceed unfettered. That could not be done.

"She'll not dream anything's wrong here if we're careful," said Green. "Will you wait for her, or shall I?"

"This is up to you, Green. I'll leave you. You might have had Malley, but I can't drive the car myself, and I want to get back to town. Do you think you'll be able to manage alone?"

"I think so," said the chief inspector confidently.

"I'll get the local superintendent to send up a couple of plain-clothes men as we pass. You'll bring her straight back to town."

"Ay!"

In a quarter of an hour all preparations were finished. Malley was in the driving-seat of the car. Foyle and Grell sat in the tonneau, and it was no coincidence that the right hand of the prisoner and the left hand of the detective were hidden beneath the rug which covered their knees. For Foyle had handcuffed his man to himself. It was merely a matter of travelling precaution. The superintendent did not believe that Grell would attempt to escape, but there was no excuse for giving him any temptation. Anyway, it did no harm.

"You'll charge him with the murder directly you reach town, I suppose?" whispered Green, standing by the step of the car.

"Murder?" repeated Foyle. "Grell did not commit the murder. I shall detain him a day before making any charge against him at all. Drive on, Malley. See you later, Green."

The car whizzed away. Chief Inspector Green stood bare-headed in front of the house, scratching his head, and with a look of bewilderment on his face.



CHAPTER XLIX

It is permissible in certain circumstances for the police to detain a suspect, without making any charge, for a period of not more than twenty-four hours. Heldon Foyle had taken advantage of this to hold Grell while he tried to draw further together the tangled threads of the investigation.

He had changed out of his tweeds and, once more the spick-and-span man about town, he sat down in his office with an order that he was to be informed the moment that Sir Hilary Thornton returned. Meanwhile, he occupied himself with a work of composition. It was necessary to break gently to the public the fact that Robert Grell was not dead. But it had to be done in the right way. He could not altogether see what evidence might have to be offered at the inquest, but he was sure the newspapers would label it "sensational." He wanted to prepare, at any rate, for the revelation of the dead man's identity. That there was no possibility of avoiding, but it could be rendered less startling if it did not come suddenly. And beyond the public interest in the case Foyle had another reason for the publication of his effort. He worked steadily and made three drafts before he had completed his task. Two of them he tore up, and the third he read over carefully, making one or two alterations.

"When the inquest in reference to the Grosvenor Gardens murder is resumed it is understood that evidence of a remarkable nature will be brought forward by the police. Inquiries made by the C.I.D. have placed it beyond all doubt that the crime was not a planned one, and evidence is still being collected against a suspected person.

"A man for whom a rigorous search has been made by the police has been found in a Sussex village by Scotland Yard officers, acting in conjunction with the county constabulary. He was taken to Malchester Row police station, where he has been detained. It is understood that he refuses to give any account of the circumstances in which he took to flight.

"On inquiry at Scotland Yard yesterday, a representative of this journal was informed that the officers engaged on the case expect to be in a position to clear up the mystery in the course of the next few days."

"That ought to do," he muttered as he blew down a speaking-tube. To the detective-inspector who came in response to his summons he handed the paper. "Have fifty copies of that made, and bring me one. Put some one to 'phone through to all the journalists on the list, asking 'em to call here at half-past six to-night. They're each to have a copy of that."

There was guile in Foyle's fixing of the time. He knew that the paragraph would be a bombshell in Fleet Street, and did not want it to explode prematurely. At half-past six all the evening papers would have ceased publication for the day. At half-past six, too, he would take good care to be far away from the hordes of Press men, hungry for details, who would strive to find more information from the hints given. At that time they were likely to find any person wiser than themselves, and he had seen to it that there should be no indiscretion at Malchester Row.

"Sir Hilary just come in, sir," said some one, opening the door just wide enough to permit a head to be thrust within; but before Foyle could move the Assistant Commissioner himself walked in.

"One moment, Sir Hilary," said the superintendent, and dashed out, to return again almost immediately. "I just wanted to make certain that we shouldn't be disturbed. There's a lot to tell you. Things have been happening."

"So I gather," said the other, settling himself in the arm-chair. "You've got Grell, I hear. What's the next move? Do his finger-prints agree?"

"They do not. He is not the murderer, but he won't say who is. The next move is, that I intend that to go in all the morning papers."

He placed in Thornton's hand a copy of the typewritten paragraph, and the Assistant Commissioner read it slowly through. "I don't quite follow," he said as he handed it back. "It hints that Grell will be charged with the murder."

"Exactly. It is intended to convey that impression. To tell you the truth, I have a piece of evidence of which I have not spoken to you before. It indicates a person possibly guilty whom we must not neglect. If she is guilty—which I half doubt—that paragraph may help us to get at the missing evidence."

His voice sank to a whisper and he leaned forward with arms outspread over his desk. As he spoke, Thornton's voice changed. He leapt to his feet and brought his fist down vehemently on the desk.

"I don't believe it, man!" he cried. "I don't believe it! It's incredible. You've made a mistake. It can't be. Why, you've believed it was Grell yourself all along. If you've made a mistake, then why not now?"

Foyle's chin became a trifle aggressive. Thornton's astonishment was natural, but the superintendent did not like the appearance of lack of confidence. His blue eyes were alight. "You can draw your own inference from the facts, Sir Hilary," he said coldly. "I am clear in my mind. I have done nothing, because I want to make the evidence as to motive indisputable. Should I find I am wrong I shall, of course, write out my resignation."

Thornton was not usually an impulsive man. He had recovered himself immediately upon his outburst and was once more calm and self-possessed.

"Don't be offended, Foyle," he said, more mildly. "I beg your pardon. It was just a bit startling at first. We've been associated too long for misunderstanding. I'll back you up, and there's not going to be any talk of resignations."

"Thank you, Sir Hilary," said the superintendent, entirely mollified. Going to the big safe he unlocked it and took something from the shelf which he handed to the Assistant Commissioner. The two bent over it.

It was nearly two hours before the two concluded their task. Sir Hilary, his hands clasped behind his back, walked in deep thought back to his own room. Heldon Foyle put on his hat and coat and ordered a taxi.

"Brixton Prison," he said to the driver.



CHAPTER L

There are many people who pass Brixton Prison everyday who have no conception of its whereabouts. The main entrance is tucked away a hundred yards or so down an unobtrusive turning off Brixton Hill. Within a little gate-house inside the barred gates a principal warder sits on duty.

Although Foyle was tolerably well known to the prison officials, the usual formalities had to be gone through, and he was kept outside till a note he had pencilled was sent up and replied to by the governor. Then, conducted by a warder, he was taken over the flagged courtyard and through long corridors to the remand side of the prison.

Another warder opened one of the heavy cell doors, and a man seated on a low bed looked up with a frown of recognition. The superintendent remained standing by the doorway. "Sorry to trouble you, Abramovitch," he said briskly. "I just wanted to have a little talk with you."

Ivan rose and deliberately turned his back. "You must go to my solicitor if you have any questions to ask," he said sullenly.

Heldon Foyle seated himself at the end of the bed and nursed his stick. "That wouldn't be of much use, would it?" he asked smilingly. "What I want to speak to you about has nothing to do with the present charge against you. Mr. Grell is in our hands now, and in the circumstances I thought you might care to know it."

The valet wheeled about and thrust his face close to the immobile face of the detective.

"You've arrested Mr. Grell?" he cried. "Are you lying?"

"I am not lying. He is in custody and may be charged unless you like to clear him."

Ivan took a couple of short steps. His lips were firmly pressed together. The detective watched him narrowly as he came to an abrupt halt.

"You think I can clear him?" he said slowly. "You are wrong."

"But you know he never committed the murder?" The words came sharp as a pistol shot. Ivan never answered, and Foyle went on: "You have done all you could to help him escape us. Now we have got him you can only help him by telling the truth. There was some strong motive to induce you to take all the risks you have done. What is at the back of it?"

Ivan studied his questioner suspiciously. Foyle made haste to dispel what was at the back of his mind. "You had reason for refusing to speak before," he insisted. "I'm not blaming you. Consider the thing fairly as it stands now and you'll see that you best serve your master by perfect frankness. I'm not trying to trap you. You may trust me."

The scowl on the face of the valet faded and his sloping shoulders squared a little.

"You are right. Secrecy can no longer do good," he said. "I will tell you what I know."

He sat down by Foyle's side and went on: "I was always what you English call a bad egg. I broke with my family many years ago—it doesn't matter who they were—and left Russia to become an adventurer at large. In the years that followed I was everything everywhere—seaman, barber, waiter, soldier, and gambling-house cheat. I wasn't particular how I picked up a living nor where it led me. All that won't interest you. I was operator in a gambling-joint at San Francisco when I first met Goldenburg, though I knew him by reputation. He came to our place now and again, and we were on speaking terms. After that Grell came and I mistook him for the other man. That was how we first became acquainted."

"That would be almost five years ago?" interposed Foyle quietly.

"Just about that. They never came together, by the way, and Grell always called himself Mr. Johnson. His own name would have been too well known. Well, one night, or rather one morning, he had been winning pretty heavily. He must have had close upon four or five thousand dollars in notes on him. At the time I didn't attach any significance to the fact that two or three of the worst toughs at the table went out shortly after him. I followed about five minutes later to get a breath of air, and came on the gang in a narrow, deserted street, just as they brought Grell down with a sandbag. It was no business of mine and ordinarily I should have walked away, but that I'd had a little difference with one of the gang earlier in the day, so I sailed in with a gun, broke 'em up, and helped Grell to his hotel. He came round before I left him, and I told him my name, and he gave me five hundred dollars, telling me to look to him if ever I was in trouble.

"Well, next day I was fired from my job. I could guess that the people whose game I'd spoilt were at the bottom of it, but that didn't worry me much. I had a bit of money and I came back to Europe—London, Paris, Vienna, Rome—everywhere but Russia. I lived sometimes by my wits, sometimes by any odd job I could turn my hand to. My father and mother had both died, and my only living relative was my sister, a girl of eighteen, living in St. Petersburg. From her I heard occasionally."

A spasm crossed his face as though some painful recollection had been brought to his mind, and he passed a handkerchief across his brow, which had suddenly become wet with perspiration.

"It was through her that I again met Grell," he resumed, speaking more slowly. "She was alone and practically unprotected. She wrote to me that a certain high official had been paying her unwelcome attentions, but I suspected nothing till I one day learned that she had been arrested for a political offence—she, who never knew the meaning of the word politics. I knew what that meant.... At the time I was in straits myself, for fortune had not been kind at the cards. This was in Vienna. I was staring out of my window in a kind of daze when I saw a man pass in a motor-car. It was Grell—the man whom I had known as Johnson.

"In desperation I sought him out—it was easy enough to find where he was staying—and told him my story. I asked him to loan me money, because I knew that I might have to bribe officials. He offered to do more—to accompany me to St. Petersburg and use all his influence on behalf of my sister.

"It was at his suggestion that I travelled as his valet. My appearance had altered since I was last in Russia, but difficulties might have arisen. We travelled night and day, but we were too late. The girl who had never harmed a single person in her white life was dead—killed by the hardships to which she had been subjected. I—I——"

He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, and Foyle waited patiently. Ivan controlled himself with an effort. "Grell advised me to come away, but I was determined to stay for a while. I had work to do. I told him nothing, but steadily I sought for the man who had killed her as surely as though he had plunged a dagger in her heart. I found him at last——"

"Wait a moment," interjected Foyle quickly. "I want to know nothing of that; that has nothing to do with me." He had guessed what work it was that the hot-blooded Russian had remained to do. No man is bound to incriminate himself.

"It was through Grell that I got away scot-free. No one suspected the valet of so well-known a man. He asked no questions, though I could tell that he knew what—what I knew. He risked much to shield me, although never a word passed between us. Could I do less when it came to my turn? I came back to England with him, and I remained his personal servant. I kept my distance from the other servants."

"In fact, you pretended to have little acquaintance with English?" interrupted Foyle.

Ivan nodded. "That was so. On the nights when I was free, I wandered about London and picked up a few old acquaintances, among them being Charlie Condit. I shan't tell what I knew about him, but it was enough to keep him civil, and later on he did what I told him.

"On the night that the murder occurred, I happened to be in the hall about nine or a little after, when I saw a man and a woman through the shaded glass standing on the steps outside. I opened the door before they could ring. For the moment I thought the man was Mr. Grell, but a second later I recognised Goldenburg. He did not remember me. The woman, too, I knew at once. I had met her occasionally in different cities of Europe. It was the Princess Petrovska. Goldenburg spoke of an appointment and showed me a note from Mr. Grell directing that the bearer should be shown to the study to await his arrival.

"That was enough for me. I showed them up and left them. I did not hear Mr. Grell return, but about ten o'clock he rang for me and met me at the door of his study. He told me that he was expecting a lady, and if she called she was to be brought straight up; and he said the other people were just going. Almost immediately after he told me she came. Wills was going to the door, but I was in front, and I showed her up."

Foyle shifted his position a little. "Who was she?" he asked.

"I couldn't see her face; she wore a heavy veil."

"All right; go on."

"I knocked at the door of the study, but no one replied. She pushed by me and entered, closing the door after her. I went away to my own room. Whatever was taking place was no business of mine. I must have dozed off in my chair, for when I was awakened by Mr. Grell shaking me by the shoulder, he was white and quite collected.

"'Ivan,' he said, 'there's been murder. Come with me. Don't speak, and tread softly.'

"I followed him into the study. All the lights were out, and before turning them up he locked the door. As he turned the switch I could see the body lying on the couch, and drew back. 'Who is it?' I asked.

"'Goldenburg,' he replied. And after a pause: 'He was a relative of mine. I have killed him. You must help me to get away, Ivan.'

"He seemed profoundly moved and yet held himself strongly in hand. One thing I noticed. Although he said he had done it, his hands and clothes were spotless. And yet there had been much blood about the room. I said nothing of that, and he quickly began to turn things out of his pockets. Both he and the dead man were in evening dress, and he hastily transferred all his property to the dead man's pockets, taking what Goldenburg possessed. He picked up the sheath of the dagger from the floor. It was one he had bought in South America.

"'It will give us a chance to get well clear if they think that this is my body,' he explained. 'Go and pack a bag, Ivan.'

"When I got back with the bag, he had finished. He put on a hat and overcoat and we went out, walked to Victoria Station, and from there took a taxicab to Charing Cross. From there we walked to an all-night Turkish bath establishment, and that gave us an opportunity to change into some rough tweeds that I'd shoved in the bag. In the morning we went to the East End and fixed up rooms with some people I knew of. We had come away without any money, but Grell somehow managed to get in touch with the Princess Petrovska, with whom, apparently, he had some arrangement. She had, it seems, booked through to Paris from Charing Cross, but instead of getting on the boat at Folkestone had returned by the next train and taken quiet lodgings at Kennington. That was to put you on a false track in case of accidents."

Foyle smiled a little ruefully. "So that was how it was done," he remarked.

"We were determined to get out of the country, but the reward bill with a description of Goldenburg that pictured Grell stopped us trying ordinary methods. It was necessary to raise money, and I, recklessly enough I suppose, went out with the pearls which Mr. Grell had entrusted to me, in the hope of meeting a jeweller, with whom I had a casual acquaintance, at the restaurant, when you fell in with me. The jeweller's letter which you found on me was, by the way, a forgery.

"When you seized me I was taken by surprise. When I was allowed to go, after you had told me that the dead man was not Grell, I felt certain that you would have me followed. Your men were very clever, and I could not shake 'em off at first. I was determined to go to any length to protect Grell, so I went into an outfitter's where there was a public telephone, and put a call to a place where I was sure to find Condit. I fixed up with him to wait for the man who was shadowing me, and I led him down to Whitechapel. It was simple enough for Condit to drop on him from behind, and then the two of us knocked him senseless, got him into a cab, and carried him away to Smike Street—to the place which you raided.

"Mr. Grell knew nothing about that incident till it was over. He was staying in Grave Street at the time, and the idea occurred to me of holding your man as a hostage. We meanwhile contrived to send a note to Sir Ralph Fairfield. In case of accidents, I was to meet him in Grave Street and lead him round about till I was certain he was not followed."

"Then you were the black-bearded man who fired at me!" exclaimed Foyle. "I might have guessed it."

"And so you were the navvy!" said Ivan. "I didn't know that, but I at once made up my mind it was dangerous to meddle with Fairfield if he was watched. I gave him the slip, went back to Mr. Grell, and typed out a note to you. You got it?"

"Yes. I got it. Where did the paper you used come from?"

Ivan's brow contracted into a frown of deep thought. "I forget—no—I got it from Mr. Grell. He tore off a half-sheet from a letter."

Foyle was thinking of the finger-prints he had found on that notepaper. Ivan plunged again into his narrative. "After that the Princess came, and Condit. She had fixed up an arrangement with the people living in the house that they were to declare her their daughter if inquiries were made. I don't know if she slept there after, but she did that night. We worked out a cipher in order to attempt to communicate secretly with either Sir Ralph Fairfield or Lady Eileen Meredith. As I have said, the lack of money was our trouble, and we had to get some—somehow. Condit went away, and I persuaded Mr. Grell to go with him and spend the night at a gambling-joint in Smike Street. I remained. You see, we guessed you might want to examine the house, but we weren't certain. We were right. As you know, I only got away over the roofs just in time, and the Princess slipped away while you were engaged.

"After that it was a game of hide-and-seek. We decided that it was too dangerous to keep your detective a prisoner, and sent him back in a motor-car we hired. It was easy enough to make a false number to slip over the real one, so that it couldn't be traced.

"It was my idea after that that Mr. Grell should become a watchman on the river until we could get away by embarking before the mast. We tried the advertisement method of communication and failed.

"The Princess undertook to see Lady Eileen—with what result you know. You know all that has happened since. I do not regret what I have done. If the killing of you or any other man would have saved Grell, I would not have hesitated."

"Thanks," said Foyle drily. "You had a good try more than once. Now, are you willing to have your statement taken down by a shorthand writer—so far as it refers to events in London?"

"I'll repeat it when you like," answered Ivan, squaring his shoulders. "Now you say that you want to prove Mr. Grell's innocent I have nothing to hide. For I am certain that he is innocent."

"Tell me one other thing," said the superintendent. "What is the association between Petrovska and Grell? Why should she have taken part in this business?"

Ivan spread out his white hands. "That you must find out either from Mr. Grell or her. I don't know."

Foyle drew out his watch. "All right, Ivan. I'll see you again shortly. Meanwhile, I'll send some one along to get your statement. I don't think you'll regret having decided to speak. Good-bye."



CHAPTER LI

Both Sir Hilary Thornton and Chief Inspector Green were waiting for Heldon Foyle when he returned to his office. The superintendent darted a question at the chief inspector as he flung off his overcoat.

"Yes, sir," answered Green. "She's at Malchester Row now. There was no trouble at all. She came up to the Grange at half-past three, in a car, and asked the maid who answered the door for Mrs. Ellis. The girl showed her into a sitting-room, acting on my instructions, and I walked in on her and told her I should detain her. She was angry at first, but in a moment or two she laughed, and asked if Mr. Grell was taken. That was all there was to it. I brought her back straight away by train. She seemed to treat it as a joke, but never a word about the case did she utter."

"And how did you get on, Foyle?" demanded the Assistant Commissioner.

The superintendent plumped into a chair. "I am sending a man up to get a statement from Ivan," he said. "There's much to be said for that Russian if his story is true—and I couldn't see any holes in it."

He related particulars of the interview that had taken place in the cell. Neither Thornton nor Green spoke till he had finished. The Assistant Commissioner smoothed his moustache, Green rubbed his head.

"Then Grell admitted the murder to Ivan?" said the latter, turning a puzzled face to Foyle. "You told me he was not the murderer."

"Nor was he," answered the superintendent. "According to Ivan, there was no blood on his clothes or on his hands a few minutes after Goldenburg was killed."

"Well, this beats all," exclaimed Green. "I'm hanged if I understand!"

Foyle lowered his voice to a whisper, and Green's saturnine face became a study as he listened. He gave a little gasp. "It lies between the three of them," said Foyle. "I am inclined to believe that we have been rather wrong in our first impressions of the finger-prints. But it never does to take chances. Suppose you go and take charge at Berkeley Square. There are four men there already. Lady Eileen has certainly had something to do with this, and we don't want to lose sight of her."