saved from the gallows as Mr. Robert Grell."

Thornton took a long breath that was almost a sigh. "Poor chap," he said
reflectively. "Poor chap!" And then, after an interval, "Poor girl!
Couldn't you have dropped a hint, Foyle?"

The introduction of sentiment into business was a folly that Heldon
Foyle seldom permitted himself. With a shrug he pulled himself together.
He shook his head. "We've got to be more certain yet. I daren't tell him
too much--for my idea may prove to be wrong. You must remember that it
was undoubtedly Eileen Meredith's finger-prints on the dagger. At
present it is only surmise of mine how they got there. Finding the
prints on her blotting-pad, which I showed you, corresponded with those
on the dagger you gave me, was one of the biggest surprises of my life.
But we may clear it up now."

"H'm," said Thornton. "Well, we shall have to look sharp."

A thought struck Foyle. He stood rigid as a statue for a moment, and
then slapped his knee with sudden energy, "By God! I believe I've got
it!" he exclaimed, and jumped for the telephone.

"Put me through to the Yard.... Hello! I want Mr. Grant.... That you,
Grant?... About the Grosvenor Gardens case. Tell me. Might the
finger-prints on the dagger have been caused by some one withdrawing it
and replacing it after the murder had been committed? Would the second
handling have obliterated first prints?... Blurred them. I see. But if
the person who first handled the dagger wore gloves? Thanks. That's what
I wanted to know."

He replaced the receiver and turned triumphantly on Thornton. "That
bears out my idea, Sir Hilary. Will you excuse me while I see if Bolt's
on the premises?"

Without waiting for a reply, he darted from the room. The Assistant
Commissioner's brow puckered and he thoughtfully replaced the upset
furniture. By the time he had finished Foyle had returned.

"Just caught him," he said. "I've sent him to collect all the men he can
find to make some fresh inquiries."

"I'm a little bewildered," confessed Thornton, jingling some money in
his trousers pockets and turning blankly upon the superintendent. "Do
you think you'll be able to do it--to bring this crime home to the
Princess Petrovska?"

"I think I can," replied the superintendent. "I was a blind ass not to
see it earlier. Lola's alibi--which is proved to be false, if what Grell
and Abramovitch say is true--helped to blind me. I was thrown off, too,
by the finger-prints on the bl