intruder were a shiny black, and a little trimming with scissors and
a judicious use of a comb and brush had altered the appearance of the
superintendent's face as completely as the clothes had altered his
figure.

He was no believer in stage disguises. False beards and wigs were liable
to go wrong at critical moments. He nodded reassuringly to the inspector
and placed his kit-bag on the floor.

"It's all right, I'm Foyle right enough. I'm thinking of a change of air
for a day or two," was all the explanation he vouchsafed. "I want to
just run through my letters and catch the nine-ten train from Waterloo.
I'll leave a note over for Mr. Mainland, who'll take charge while I'm
away."

He went methodically through the heavy morning's correspondence,
pencilling a few notes here and there on the letters, and sorting them
into baskets ranged on the table as he finished. Precisely at a quarter
to nine he touched a bell, and gave a few brief instructions. Then,
carrying his bag, he descended the flight of steps at the front entrance
and walked briskly along the Embankment. As he crossed the footway of
Hungerford Bridge, a biting wind swept up the river and he shivered,
warmly clad though he was. One of his own men passed without recognising
him, and the superintendent smiled to himself.

There were five minutes to spare when he sank into the corner seat of a
smoking compartment, and composed himself with a couple of morning
papers for the journey. But he read very little. There was much to
occupy his mind, and as the train slipped out of Waterloo station he
tossed the periodicals aside, crossed his knees, blew a cloud of smoke
into the air, and with a little gold pencil made a few notes on a
visiting-card. London slipped away, and an aeroplane flying low came
into his line of vision as they passed Weybridge. The open pasture
meadows gave place to more wooded country, and he placed his pencil back
in his pocket as they ran into Deepnook.

A solitary porter shuffled forward to take his bag. Foyle handed it
over. "Is there a good hotel in this place?" he asked.

"There's the Anchor, sir," answered the porter. "It's a rare good place,
an' they say as 'ow Lord Nelson stayed there once. They aren't very busy
at this time of the year. Only one or two motorists stopping there."

"What's good enough for Nelson is good enough for me. Is it far, or can
you carry that bag there?"

The porter hastened to reassure the gentleman. It w