h him into some room where I can talk to him."

The butler, a middle-aged man, nervous, white-faced and half-distracted,
was brought into a little sitting-room. His eyes moved restlessly to and
from the detective: his fingers were twitching uneasily.

Foyle shot one swift appraising glance at him. Then he nodded to a
chair.

"Sit down, my man," he said, and his voice was silky and smooth. "Get
him a drink, Bolt. He'll feel better after that. Now, what's your
name?--Wills?--Pull yourself together. There's nothing to be alarmed
about. Just take your own time and tell us all about it."

There was no hint of officialdom in his manner. It was the sympathetic
attitude of one friend towards another. Wills gulped down a strong
mixture of brandy and soda which Bolt held out to him, and a tinge of
colour returned to his pale cheeks.

"It was awful, sir--awful," he said shakily. "Mr. Grell came in shortly
before ten, and left word that if a lady came to see him she was to be
brought straight into his study. She drove up in a motor-car a few
minutes afterwards and went up to him."

"What was her name? What was she like?" interrupted Bolt. Foyle held up
his hand warningly to his subordinate.

Wills quivered all over, and words forsook him for a moment. Then he
went on--

"I--I don't know. Ivan, Mr. Grell's valet, let her in. I saw her pass
through the hall. She was tall and slim, but she wore a heavy veil, so I
didn't see her face. I don't know when she left, but I went up to the
study at one o'clock to ask if anything was needed before I went to bed.
I could get no answer, although I knocked loudly two or three times; so
I opened the door. My God! I..."

He flung his hands over his eyes and collapsed in an infantile paroxysm
of tears.

Foyle rose and touched him gently on the shoulder. "Yes, then?"

"The room was only dimly lit, sir, and I could see that he was lying on
the couch, rather awkwardly, his face turned from me. I thought he might
have dozed off, and I went into the room and touched him on the
shoulder. My hand came away wet!" His voice rose to a scream. "It was
blood--blood everywhere--and he with a knife in his heart."

Foyle leaned over the table. "Where's Ivan?--Russian, I suppose, by the
name? He must be about the house somewhere."

"I haven't seen him since he let the lady in," faltered the butler.

The superintendent never answered. Bolt had silently disappeared. For
five minutes silence reigned i