aring on the case he was
investigating he felt certain. There was only one way to get it at once,
and that was to steal. Anywhere else but in Grave Street he would have
waited to face the matter out. Not that Grave Street would have frowned
upon a theft, but that he would have been forced to reveal his
identity, and Grave Street was not a healthy neighbourhood for solitary
detectives.

Sir Ralph stood thunderstruck, but some one else acted. The
black-bearded man had disappeared. From somewhere there were a couple of
dull thuds like a hammer falling upon wood, and Foyle heard the whistle
of bullets over his head.

"I'll get even for that," he muttered between his teeth, but his
headlong flight never slackened.

Behind him was a clatter of pursuing feet. Fairfield, recovering
himself, had raised a cry and it was taken up.

"Stop thief! Hold him!"

He passed the man who had been so eagerly intent on the bookshop. The
man made a clutch at him, missed and fell headlong right in the path of
Fairfield, now a few paces behind. The baronet tripped over his body and
was thrown violently to the ground.

Foyle made a mental note in favour of Detective-Sergeant Chambers, who
had so adroitly intercepted the pursuit. As he came to the main road he
slackened his pace to a sharp walk, and dived into an underground
station. He breathed a sigh of relief as he passed down the steps to the
platform.

He had anticipated trouble, but pistol-shots in broad daylight, even in
Grave Street, had been outside his calculations. He had recognised the
peculiar report of an automatic pistol. His adversaries, whoever they
might be, were obviously very much in earnest. Pistol-shooting at
detectives is not a commonplace pastime even with the most reckless of
criminals. Foyle decided on another and early visit to Grave Street, and
promised himself grimly that the target should be some one else, if it
came to shooting again. He was in danger of losing his temper.

Not until he had got in the train did he open the note that was still
between his fingers. He frowned as he read it.

"Curse it! This comes of acting on impulse. Why couldn't I have waited!
I had the whole thing in my hands."

The note said simply--

"I am alive. I must see you. Follow the man who gives you this
note.--R. G."

Heldon Foyle had seen much of Robert Grell's writing during his search
of the house in Grosvenor Gardens, and had no doubt that the note was
his.