p
the question of identity up our sleeves any longer."

"There's a week yet," answered Foyle. "I don't think it will much matter
what is revealed then."

The Assistant Commissioner came to a halt. "You're not a man to be
over-confident, Foyle," he explained. "Do you feel pretty certain of
having Grell under arrest by that time? I've not interfered with you
hitherto, but for heaven's sake be careful. It won't do to make a
mistake--especially with a man of Grell's standing."

Heldon Foyle lifted his shoulders deprecatingly. "It all depends upon an
idea I have, sir. I am willing to take all responsibility."

"You're still convinced that Grell is guilty?"

"I am convinced that he knows all about the murder," answered Foyle
ambiguously. "With the help of Pinkerton's, I've traced his history back
for the last twenty-five years. He's had his hands in some queer
episodes in his time before he became a millionaire. There are gaps
which we can't fill up, of course, but we're pretty complete. There was
one thing in his favour. Although he's known toughs in all corners of
the world, he's never been mixed up in any dirty business. And as he's
carried out one or two political missions for the United States, I
suppose he's had to know some of these people. To-morrow or the next
day, I expect to have the records of both Ivan Abramovitch and Condit.
It will all help, though the bearing on the murder is perhaps indirect."

"You're talking in parables, like a detective out of a book," said
Thornton, with a peevishness that his covering smile could not entirely
conceal. "But I know you'll have your own way when you don't want to be
too precise. How do you regard the burnt paper? Is it important?"

"It would have been if I could have saved it," said the detective
regretfully. "As it is, it's of no use as evidence in a court, for it
only rests on my word. I keep pegging away at it, but I'm not certain
that I can fill it out as it should be. But you never know your luck in
our trade. I remember a case of forgery once. The counterfoil of a
tradesman's paying-in book showed L100 with which he was not credited in
the books of the bank. The cashier was confident that his initials in
blue pencil on the counterfoil were genuine. Yet he was equally certain
that he had not received the money. The tradesman was certain that he
had sent the money. There it was. I was at a dead end. One day, I
noticed a little stationer's store near the tradesman