avels much. No further particulars known."

Foyle stroked his chin gravely. "Formerly Lola Rachael," he murmured.
"And Sir Ralph recognised the miniature as little Lola of Vienna. She's
worth looking after. We must find her, Green. What about this man Ivan?"

"No trace of him yet, sir, but I don't think he can give us the slip.
He hadn't much time to get away. By the way, sir, what do you think of
Sir Ralph?"

"I don't know. He's keeping something back for some reason. You'd better
have him shadowed, Green. Go yourself, and take a good man with you. He
mustn't be let out of sight night or day. I may tackle him again later
on."

"Very good, sir. Waverley's still at Grosvenor Gardens. Will you be
going back there?"

"I don't know. I want to look through the records of the Convict
Supervision Office for the last ten years. I have an idea that I may
strike something."

Green was too wise a man to ask questions of his chief. He slipped from
the room. Half an hour later Foyle dashed out of the room hatless, and,
picking up a taxicab, drove at top speed to Grosvenor Gardens. He was
greeted at the door by Lomont.

"What is it?" he demanded, the excitement of the detective communicating
itself to him. "Have you carried the case any further?"

"I don't know," replied the detective. "I must see the body again. Come
up with me."

In the death-chamber he carefully locked the door. A heavy ink-well
stood on the desk. He twisted up a piece of paper and dipped it in.
Then, approaching the murdered man, he smeared the fingers of his right
hand with the blackened paper and pressed them lightly on a piece of
blotting paper. The secretary, in utter bewilderment, watched him
compare the prints with a piece of paper he took from his pocket.

"What is it?" he repeated again.

"Mr. Lomont," replied the detective gravely, "I wish I knew. Unless our
whole system of identification is wrong--and that is incredible--that
man who lies dead there is not Robert Grell."

CHAPTER VI

Lomont reeled dizzily, and his hand sought the support of the wall. To
him Foyle's voice sounded unreal. He stared at the detective as though
doubtful of his sanity. His life had been hitherto ordered, placid. That
there were such things as crimes, murders, detectives, he knew. He had
read of them in the newspapers. But hitherto they had only been names to
him--something to make the paper more readable.

He was a thin-faced man of about thirty, wit