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As he spoke, Thornton's voice changed. He leapt to his feet and brought his fist down vehemently on the desk. "I don't believe it, man!" he cried. "I don't believe it! It's incredible. You've made a mistake. It can't be. Why, you've believed it was Grell yourself all along. If you've made a mistake, then why not now?" Foyle's chin became a trifle aggressive.

He suddenly became sober. The door-keeper's hand grasping at his collar clutched empty air. The detective's head dropped. Jim was met half-way by a short charge and Foyle's shoulder caught him in the chest. Both men were forced by the momentum of the charge back through the open door and fell in a heap just within. At ordinary times the two would have been fairly evenly matched.

I ordered that it be sent to the paper, together with another intended for the eye of Sir Ralph Fairfield." Her interest was plainly awakened. "Then the other was for you!" she cried, turning to Fairfield. "I wondered if " She paused with the realisation that she had admitted what she had a moment before denied. Foyle's foot pressed heavily on the toe of the baronet to warn him not to speak.

He heard Foyle's voice. "It's with you to do what you ought to do. Of course you can kill me. My pistol's in my pocket. But I don't think you will. You've murdered one man. You won't load your soul up with another. Besides, if you kill me, you will never get away from Kowatin alive. But it's with you take your choice. It's me or you." Halbeck's fingers crept out and found the pistol.

"I beg your pardon," said the baronet mechanically, and, stepping back, seated himself in a big arm-chair that flanked the desk. He passed his hand in a dazed fashion across his forehead and his composure came back to him. Staggering, incredible as the statement seemed, there was that in Foyle's quiet tones that gave it the stamp of truth. "Of course, I'll give you my word," he said.

No fewer than three chapters in a book the Criminal Investigation Department had commenced compiling were devoted to him. They lay with others neatly typed and indexed in Heldon Foyle's office. One was his signed statement of events on the night of the tragedy. The last time he had seen Grell alive was at half-past six, when his employer had left for the St. Jermyn's Club.

Robert Grell lay sprawled awkwardly on the couch, his face turned towards the wall, one leg trailing on the floor. A dark crimson stain soiled the white surface of his shirt, and one side of his dinner jacket was wringing wet. The dagger still remained in the wound, and it was that riveted Foyle's attention. He stepped back quickly to one of the men at the door. "Send Mr. Grant to me," he ordered.

That was no bluff the finger-prints proved that. To hold a Scotland Yard man as a hostage was a game only to be played by those who had much at stake. Only one man shared Heldon Foyle's confidence. That was Sir Hilary Thornton. To the Assistant Commissioner he talked freely. "It's an ugly job for us, sir, there's no disguising that.

I wonder what a jury of decent men would think about a man who robbed his child for five years, and let that child be fed and clothed and cared for by the girl he tried to destroy, the girl he taught what sin there was in the world." "She put you up to this. She was always in love with you, and you know it." There was a dangerous look in Foyle's eyes, and his jaw set hard.

He heard Foyle's voice. "It's with you to do what you ought to do. Of course you can kill me. My pistol's in my pocket. But I don't think you will. You've murdered one man. You won't load your soul up with another. Besides, if you kill me, you will never get away from Kowatin alive. But it's with you take your choice. It's me or you." Halbeck's fingers crept out and found the pistol.