uperintendent nervously by the shoulder. "Who is
this man, Mr. Foyle? What does it all mean? Where is Mr. Grell?"

Foyle's hand had stolen to his chin and he rubbed it vigorously.

"I don't know what it means," he confessed irritably. "You know as much
as I do now. This man is not Robert Grell, though he is astonishingly
like him. Now, Mr. Lomont, I rely on you not to breathe a word of this
to a living soul until I give you permission. This secret must remain
between our two selves for the time being."

"Certainly."

In spite of his air of candour, Heldon Foyle had not revealed all he
knew. He left the house pondering deeply.

"You see, sir," he explained to the Assistant Commissioner later, "no
one who knew Grell had seen the body closely. The butler had taken it
for granted that it was his master. It was pure luck with me. In looking
through the records in search of this woman Petrovska, I hit against the
picture of Goldenburg. It was so like Grell that I went off at once to
compare finger-prints. They tallied; and then young Lomont spoke of the
scar. Though what Harry Goldenburg should be doing in Grell's house,
with Grell's clothes, and with Grell's property in the pockets, is more
than I can fathom."

Sir Hilary Thornton drummed on his desk with his right hand.

"Isn't this the Goldenburg who engineered the South American gold mine
swindle?" he asked.

"That's the man," agreed Foyle, not without a note of rueful admiration.
"He'd got half-a-dozen of the best-known and richest peers in England to
promise support, when we spoilt his game. No one would prosecute. He
always had luck, had Goldenburg. He's been at the back of a score of big
things, but we could never get legal proof against him. He was a cunning
rascal--educated, plausible, reckless. Well, he's gone now, and he's
given us as tough a nut to crack as ever he did while he was alive."

"How did you get his finger-prints if he was never convicted?" asked Sir
Hilary with interest.

Foyle looked his superior full in the face and smiled.

"I arrested him myself, on a charge of pocket-picking in Piccadilly," he
said. "Of course, he never picked a pocket in his life--he was too big a
crook for that. But we got a remand, and that gave us a chance to get
his photograph and prints for the records. We offered no evidence on the
second hearing. It was perhaps not strictly legal, but----" The
superintendent's features relaxed into a smile. "He never brought