nd jury
to decide whether he's right or wrong. No one but a fool would attempt
to bolster up a wrong answer. In this case, too, you must remember that
there are finger-prints. They cannot lie. If we get the right man--Grell
or any one else--there will be no question of doubt."

Fairfield tapped a cigarette on the back of his left hand and rose.

"Well, even if you do draw Grell with that advertisement, I doubt if
you'll get anything from him if he doesn't want to talk. I know the man,
and he's hard to beat out of any decision that he makes up his mind to,
as hard"--he bowed smilingly to the detective--"as you would be."

"Thank you. If it were a question of Grell against Foyle I might have to
go under. But it isn't. Behind me is the C.I.D., behind that the whole
force, behind that the Home Secretary, and behind him the State. So you
see the odds are on my side."

A jerky buzz at the telephone behind the superintendent's desk
interrupted any reply that Fairfield might have made. With a muttered
"Good-day" the baronet moved across the carpeted floor out of the room.
As he closed the door Foyle put the receiver to his ear.

"Hello! Hello!... Yes, this is Foyle speaking. Oh yes, I know.... No,
you'd better not tell me over the telephone. You can't come here.
Somebody who knows you might see you.... Is it important?... All right.
You'd better come to Lyon's tea-place in the Strand--the one nearest
Trafalgar Square. I'll get Mr. Green to go along and have a talk with
you. Good-bye."

Rubbing his hands together thoughtfully, the superintendent sent for
Green. In a few moments the big figure of the chief inspector loomed in
the doorway.

"Dutch Fred thinks he's got hold of something," opened Foyle abruptly.
"I've told him to meet you at Lyon's in the Strand. I think he's all
right, but don't let him have any money until you've tested his yarn."

"Very good, sir," said Green. "I'll look into it."

As he left Foyle bent over his desk and, with the concentration that was
one of his distinguishing traits, busied himself in a series of reports
on a coining raid in Kensington, sent up to him by those concerned for
his perusal. He had a theory that the efficiency of the battalion of
detectives under him was not lessened by making his men tell him exactly
how they were performing their work, both verbally and in writing. "You
may have brains, you may have intuition, you may have courage, but
you'll never make a good detective