importance."

That was all it said: Foyle never wasted a word.

At five minutes past six that evening, Sir Ralph Fairfield was
announced. He ignored the offer of a chair which was made by the
superintendent, and stood with stony face a few paces from the door.
Foyle was too wise to offer his hand. He knew it would not be accepted.
He nodded affably.

"Good evening, Sir Ralph. I was hoping you would come. I would not have
troubled you but that I felt you would like to know how we are getting
on. You were a friend of Mr. Grell's."

"Well?" said Sir Ralph frigidly. "I am here, Mr. Foyle. Will you let me
know what you want to say and have done with it?"

His manner was entirely antagonistic. There was still a lingering fear
of arrest in his mind, but his attitude was in the main caused by the
fact that he believed he had been suspected by the other. The
superintendent partly guessed what was passing in his mind.

"I want your word first, Sir Ralph, that what I tell you shall not be
spoken of by you to any living soul," he said. "Then I will tell you
frankly and openly the whole history of our investigation, and you can
decide whether you will help us or not. No--wait a moment. I know how
loyal a friend you were of Robert Grell's, and it's in the light of
that, that I am going to trust you. He is not dead. He is in hiding. It
is for you to say whether you will help us to find him. If he is
innocent he has nothing to fear."

He was watching the other closely while he sprung the fact that Grell
was alive upon him. He wanted to know whether it was really a surprise,
whether in spite of the vigilance of the C.I.D. men Grell or his
companions had managed to communicate with Fairfield. The baronet had
opened his mouth to speak. A flicker of colour came and went in his pale
cheeks, and he fingered his stick nervously. Then his jaw set, and he
strode to where the superintendent was sitting and clutched him tightly
by the arm.

"What's all this?" he demanded hoarsely. "Do you mean to say Grell is
not dead?"

"As far as I know he is as alive as you or I at this present minute,"
said Foyle. "If you want to hear about it all, give me your word and sit
down. You're hurting my arm."

"I beg your pardon," said the baronet mechanically, and, stepping back,
seated himself in a big arm-chair that flanked the desk. He passed his
hand in a dazed fashion across his forehead and his composure came back
to him. Staggering, incredible