hough it is not a popular attribute
of story-book detectives. His carefully kept brown moustache was
daintily upturned at the ends. There was grim tenacity written all over
the man, but none but his intimates knew how it was wedded to pliant
resource and fertile invention.

Down a quiet street a motor-car throbbed its way and stopped before the
door of his quiet suburban home. It had been sent from Scotland Yard.

"Don't worry about speed limits," he said quietly as he stepped in.
"Refer any one to me who tries to stop you. Get to Grosvenor Gardens as
quickly as you can."

The driver touched his hat, and the car leapt forward with a jerk. A man
with tenderer nerves than Foyle would have found it a startling journey.
They swept round corners almost on two wheels, skidded on the greasy
roads, and once narrowly escaped running down one of London's outcasts
who was shuffling across the road with the painful shamble that seems to
be the hall-mark of beggars and tramps. Few, save policemen on night
duty, were about to mark their wild career.

As they drew up before the pillared portico of the great house in
Grosvenor Gardens a couple of policemen moved out of the shadow of the
railing and saluted.

Foyle nodded and walked up the steps. The door had flown open before he
touched the bell, and a lanky man with slightly bent shoulders was
outlined in the radiant glow of the electric light. It was Bolt, the
divisional detective inspector, a quiet, grave man who, save on
exceptional occasions, was with his staff responsible for the
investigation of all crime in his district.

"You're the first to come, sir," he said in a quiet, melancholy tone.
"It's a terrible job, this."

He spoke professionally. Living as they do in an atmosphere of crime,
always among major and minor tragedies, C.I.D. men--official detectives
prefer the term--are forced to view their work objectively, like doctors
and journalists. All murders are terrible--as murders. A detective
cannot allow his sympathies or sensibility to pain or grief to hamper
him in his work. In Bolt's sense the case was terrible because it was
difficult to investigate; because, unless the perpetrators were
discovered and arrested, discredit would be brought upon the service and
glaring contents-bills declare the inefficiency of the department to the
world. The C.I.D. is very jealous of its reputation.

"Yes," agreed Foyle. "Where is the butler? He found the body, I'm told.
Fetc