he prints were
totally different. Sir Ralph Fairfield was not the murderer of the man
so astoundingly like Robert Grell.

CHAPTER X

The evidence of the finger-prints was entirely negative. Though Foyle
believed that Fairfield was innocent, he never permitted himself to be
swayed by his opinions into neglecting a possibility. It was still
possible that the baronet might have been concerned in the crime even
though they were some one else's prints on the dagger. At any rate
Fairfield was suppressing something. It could do no harm to continue the
watch that had been set upon him. So Foyle left Green and his companion
to continue their unobtrusive vigil.

To justify his stay in the box--for he was artist enough to do things
thoroughly even though it might be unnecessary--he lifted the receiver
and put a call through to Scotland Yard.

"This is Foyle speaking," he said when at last he had got the man he
asked for. "Is there anything fresh for me?"

"Nothing important, sir, except that Blake has found a curiosity dealer
who says that the knife is one that must have come from South America.
It is, he says, an unusual sort of Mexican dagger."

"Oh. Is the man who says that to be relied on? He isn't just guessing?
We can do all the guessing we want ourselves."

"No, sir, we think he's all right. It's Marfield--one of the biggest men
in the trade. By the way, sir, there's a lot of newspaper men been
asking for you since you left. They want to know about Goldenburg."

"So do I," retorted the other. "You'd better be strictly truthful with
'em, Mainland. Tell 'em you know no more than is on the reward bill.
They won't believe you, anyway. You can say I've gone home to bed, and
that there will be nothing more doing this evening. Good-bye."

"A Mexican dagger," he muttered to himself as he left the telephone-box.
"Now, if I were a story-book detective I should assume that the murderer
was either a South American or had travelled in South America. It looked
the kind of thing a woman might carry in her garter. And a veiled woman
called on him that night"--he made a wry face. "Foyle, my lad, you're
assuming things. That way madness lies. The dagger might have been
bought anywhere as a curiosity, and the veiled woman may have been a
purely innocent caller."

His meditations had brought him to a great restaurant off the Strand. He
passed through the swing doors into the lavishly gilded dining-room, and
selected a table