n the little room. Then the door was
pushed open violently and Bolt entered like a stone propelled from a
catapult.

"Ivan has gone--vanished!" he cried.

CHAPTER III

Foyle caressed his chin with his well-manicured hand.

"H'm!" he said reflectively. "Don't let's jump to conclusions too
quickly, Mr. Bolt. There's a doctor here, I suppose? Take this man to
him, and when he's a bit calmer take a statement from him. I'll leave
Ivan to you. Get some of the servants to give you a description of him,
and 'phone it through to Flack at the Yard. Let him send it out as an
'all station' message, and get in touch with the railway stations. The
chap can't have got far. Detain on suspicion. No arrest. Hello, there's
the bell. That's some of our people, I expect. All right, I'll answer.
You get on with that."

He had not raised his voice in giving his directions. He was as cool and
matter-of-fact as a business man giving instructions to his secretary,
yet he was throwing a net round London. Within five minutes of the time
Bolt had gathered his description, the private telegraph that links
Scotland Yard with all the police stations of London would be setting
twenty thousand men on the alert for the missing servant. The great
railway stations would be watched, and every policeman and detective
wherever he might be stationed would know exactly the appearance of the
man wanted, from the colour of his hair and his eyes to the pattern of
his socks.

Foyle opened the door to a little cluster of grave-faced men. Sir
Hilary Thornton, the assistant commissioner, was there; Professor
Harding, an expert retained by the authorities, and a medical man whose
scientific researches in connection with the Gould poisoning case had
sent a man to the gallows, and whose aid had been most important in
solving many murder mysteries; Grant of the finger-print department, a
wizard in all matters relating to identification; a couple of men from
his department bearing cameras, and lastly the senior officer of the
Criminal Investigation Department, Green, and his assistant, Waverley.

Sir Hilary drew Foyle a little aside, and they conversed in low tones.
Professor Harding, with a nod to the superintendent, had gone upstairs
to where the divisional surgeon and another doctor were waiting with
Lomont, the secretary of the murdered man, outside the door of the room
where Robert Grell lay dead.

The doctors had done no more than ascertain he was d