procured. In the morning he would set a score of men making
inquiries at every place in London where such a thing was likely to have
been obtained.

He was in the position of a man who might solve a puzzle by hard,
painstaking experiment and inquiry, but rather hoped that some brilliant
flash of inspiration or luck might give him the key that would fit it
together at once. They rarely do come.

Once Lomont, Grell's secretary, knocked and entered with a question on
his lips. Foyle waved him impatiently away.

"I will see you later on, Mr. Lomont. I am too busy to see you now. Mr.
Waverley or Mr. Bolt will see to you."

The man vanished, and a moment or two later a discreet tap at the door
heralded the return of Green, accompanied by Sir Ralph Fairfield.

The baronet's hand was cold as it met that of Foyle, and his haggard
face was averted as though to avoid the searching gaze of the
detective.

CHAPTER IV

Fairfield, awakened from sleep by the news of the murder of his friend,
had stared stupidly at the detective Foyle had sent to him.

"Grell killed!" he exclaimed, "Why, he was with me last night. It is
incredible--awful. Of course, I'll come at once--though I don't see what
use I can be. What time was he murdered?"

"About ten o'clock. So far as we know you were the last person to see
him alive--except the murderer," said Green. "Believe me, we're sorry to
have to trouble you."

The baronet's face had suddenly gone the colour of white paper. A
sickening dread had suddenly swept over him. His hands trembled as he
adjusted his overcoat. He remembered that he had assured Lady Eileen
that Grell had been with him at the club from six till eleven. What
complexion would that statement bear when it was exposed as a lie--in
the light of the tragedy? His throat worked as he realised that he might
even be suspected of the crime.

The ordinary person suddenly involved in the whirlpool of crime is
always staggered. There is ever the feeling, conscious or unconscious:
"Why out of so many millions of people should this happen to _me_?" So
it was with Sir Ralph Fairfield. He pictured the agony in Eileen
Meredith's eyes when she heard of the death of her lover, pictured her
denunciation of his lie. The truth would only sound lame if he were to
tell it. Who would believe it? Like a man stricken dumb he descended in
the lift with Green, out into the wild night in a taxicab, his thoughts
a chaos.

He was neither a