the last person to see him alive—except the murderer,’ said Green. ‘Believe me, we’re sorry to have to trouble you.’
The baronet’s face had suddenly gone the colour of white paper. A sickening dread had suddenly swept over him. His hands trembled as he adjusted his overcoat. He remembered that he had assured Lady Eileen that Grell had been with him at the club from six till eleven. What complexion would that statement bear when it was exposed as a lie—in the light of the tragedy? His throat worked as he realised that he might even be suspected of the crime.
The ordinary person suddenly involved in the whirlpool of crime is always staggered. There is ever the feeling, conscious or unconscious: ‘Why out of so many millions of people should this happen to me?’ So it was with Sir Ralph Fairfield. He pictured the agony in Eileen Meredith’s eyes when she heard of the death of her lover, pictured her denunciation of his lie. The truth would only sound lame if he were to tell it. Who would believe it? Like a man stricken dumb he descended in the lift with Green, out into the wild night in a taxicab, his thoughts a chaos.
He was neither a coward nor a fool. He had known close acquaintance with sudden death before. But that was different. It had not happened so. He was incapable of connected thought. One thing only he was clear upon—he must see Eileen, tell her the truth and throw himself on her mercy. Meanwhile he would answer no questions until he had considered the matter quietly.
This was his state of mind when he shook hands with Foyle. He had schooled his voice, and it was in a quiet tone that he spoke.
‘It’s a horrible thing, this,’ he said, twirling his hat between his long, nervous fingers.
Foyle was studying him closely. The movement of the hands was not lost upon him.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, stroking his chin. ‘I asked you to come here because Mr Grell dined with you last night. Do you know if he left you to keep an appointment?’
‘No—that is, it might have been so. He left me, and I understood he would be back. He did not return.’
‘At what time?’
Fairfield hesitated a second before replying. Then, ‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’
The face of Foyle gave no indication of the surprise he felt. He did not press the question, but slid off to another.
‘Do you know of any woman who was likely to visit him at that time of night?’
‘Great heavens, no, man! Do you suspect a woman? He—’ He checked himself, and looked curiously at the detective. ‘Mr Grell was a friend of mine,’ he went on more quietly. ‘Things are bad enough as they are, but you know that he had influential friends both here and in America. They won’t thank you, Mr Foyle, for trying to go into such things.’
Heldon Foyle’s eyes lingered in quiet scrutiny on the other’s face.
‘I shall do what I consider to be my duty,’ he said, his voice a little hard. ‘Come, Sir Ralph, you will see I must do my best to bring the murderer of this man to justice. Had Mr Grell any relations?’
‘I don’t believe there’s one in the wide world.’
‘And you don’t remember what time he left? Try, Sir Ralph. It is important. Before you came I sent a man to the club, and none of the servants recollects seeing either of you go. They say he was with you most of the evening. You can clear up this matter of time.’
‘I don’t remember what time he left me.’
The baronet’s voice was hoarse and strained. Foyle rose and stood towering over him.
‘You are lying,’ he said deliberately.
Sir Ralph recoiled as though he had been struck in the face. A quick wave of crimson had mounted to his temples. Instinctively his hands clenched. Then regaining a little control of himself he wheeled about without a word. His hand was on the handle of the door when the superintendent’s suave voice brought him to a halt.
‘Oh, by the way, Sir Ralph, you might look at this before you go, and say whether you recognise it.’
He held his clenched hand out, and suddenly unclasped it to disclose the miniature set in diamonds.
Sir Ralph gave a start. ‘By Jove, it’s little Lola of Vienna!’ he exclaimed. Then realised that he had been trapped. ‘But I shall tell you nothing about her,’ he snapped.
‘Thank you, Sir Ralph,’ said the other quietly.
‘But this I think it right you should know,’ went on Fairfield, standing with one hand still on the handle of the door: ‘When Grell was with me last night he showed me a pearl necklace, which he said he had bought as a wedding present for Lady Eileen Meredith. If you have not found it, it may give you some motive for the tragedy.’
‘Ah!’ said Foyle unemotionally.
DAY had long dawned ere Foyle and his staff had finished their work at the great house in Grosvenor Gardens. There had been much to do, for every person who might possibly throw a light on the tragedy had to be questioned and requestioned. The place had been thoroughly searched from attic to cellar, for letters or for the jewels that, if Sir Ralph Fairfield were right, were missing.
Much more there would be to do, but for the moment they could go no further. Foyle returned wearily to Scotland Yard to learn that of the finger-prints on the dagger two were too blurred to serve for purposes of identification. He ordered the miniature to be photographed, and held a short consultation with the assistant commissioner. The watch kept for Ivan had so far been without avail. In the corridor, early as it was, a dozen journalists were waiting. Foyle submitted good-humouredly to their questions as they grouped themselves about his room.
‘Yes. Of course, I’ll let you know all about it,’ he protested. ‘I’ll have the facts typed out for you, and you can embroider them yourselves. There’s a description of a man we’d like to get hold of—not necessarily the murderer, but he might be an important witness. Be sure and put that in.’
He always had an air of engaging candour when dealing with newspaper men. Sometimes they were useful, and he never failed to supply them with just as much information about a case as would in any event leak out. That saved them trouble and made them grateful. He went away now to have the bare details of the murder put into shape. When he returned he held the diamond-set miniature in his hand.
‘This has been left at the Lost Property Office,’ he declared unblushingly. ‘It’s pretty valuable, so they’ve put it into our hands to find the owner. Any of you boys know the lady?’
Some of them examined it with polite interest. They were more concerned with the murder of a famous man. Lost trinkets were small beer at such time. Only Jerrold of The Wire made any suggestion.
‘Reminds me of that Russian princess woman who’s been staying at the Palatial, only it’s too young for her. What’s her name?—Petrovska, I think.’
‘Thanks,’ said Foyle; ‘it doesn’t matter much. Ah, here’s your stuff. Good-bye, boys, and don’t worry me more than
