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, butI 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, andget 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 astenacious 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 toknow 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 £100 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 oneof 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 tohave 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 hadjust 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?"
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.
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 £200 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 wouldfall 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. Shecovered 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.
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 theblazes——" 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 caralong 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 toolate, 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 morethey 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 therewere 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 thefoot-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."
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 atthe 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 freshwarning 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 heshivered, 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 propertythis 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 falsewas 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 theplace 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. Foylepulled 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.
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 sleepagain, 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 werefinger-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 didthat—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.