do you understand? And if Maxwell turns up with a
complaint against you there'll be pretty bad trouble. You'll be put out
of temptation for good and all. There's such a thing as preventive
detention in this country now, you know."

The Garden of Eden looked pained.

"Truth, Mr. Foyle, I haven't done a thing," he declared earnestly. "I'm
trying the straight game now."

Heldon Foyle wagged his head.

"And staying at the Palatial," he smiled. "Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy! I believe
you, of course." And he went on with his soup.

Suddenly he looked up. "When did you last see Goldenburg?" he demanded
curtly. "No nonsense, mind, Jimmy."

Eden's face had cleared. "So that's the lay, is it?" he said with
relief. "I saw the bills out for him, and I don't mind helping you if I
can, Mr. Foyle. He was never what you'd call a proper pal, and I don't
bear any malice, though you've just done me out of a cool five hundred.
That mug who's just gone"--he jerked his head towards the door--"was
going to follow my tip and back a horse that won't win to-morrow. That's
a bit hard, isn't it, Mr. Foyle?"

From his breast-pocket Foyle took a ten-pound note and slid it across
the table. He followed Eden's meaning.

"Cough it up," he advised.

The Garden of Eden took the note and thrust it into his trousers pocket.

"He was in Victoria Station, talking to a foreign-looking chap, on
Wednesday night." A look of astonishment crossed his face while he
spoke. "By the living jingo, there's the very man he was talking to
coming in now."

Foyle folded his serviette neatly and rose.

"Right, Jimmy. I'll talk to you later. Go to the Yard and wait till I
come," he said, and, walking swiftly across the room, thrust his arm
through that of the new arrival.

"You are the man who used to be Mr. Grell's valet," he said quietly in
French. "I am a police officer, and you must come with me."

CHAPTER XI

The man tried to jerk himself free, but the detective's fingers closed
tightly about his wrist.

"There is no use making a scene, my man," he said, still speaking in
French, his voice stern, but pitched in a low key. "You are Ivan
something-or-other, and you know of the murder of your master. So come
along."

"It's a mistake," protested the other volubly in the same language. His
words slurred into each other in his excitement. "I am not the man you
take me for. I am Pierre Bazarre, a jeweller of Paris, and I have my
credentials. I will not subm