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Updated: June 12, 2025
This morning Lady Eileen rose at an unfashionable hour about four, to be exact and went out to obtain a copy of the Daily Wire. Having deciphered the advertisement, and finding that it afforded no direct clue to Grell's whereabouts, she returned home and there came across a paragraph which I will confess was inspired in this office that set her wondering whether, after all, her lover was safe.
Now get along. It's a quarter to eight." The car moved silently forward and took the corner of Grosvenor Gardens. Thirty paces beyond the spot where Dutch Freddy was lighting a cigarette it came to a stop, while the chauffeur, dropping to the ground, rummaged fiercely with the interior. Green leaned back in the shadow, his eyes fixed on the steps leading to Grell's house.
"He's bad?" Slip said, in alarm. "Poison's workin', Doc?" "Mighty bad!" There was nothing for it. Doctor Grell's night of pleasure had turned into one of life-saving and effort. He sent Slip over to drag away one of the young men from his game, and they rigged up two square trunks and a waterproof tarpaulin into an operating table.
Do you still deny that you visited Mr. Grell's house on the night that the murder took place? I think it fair to tell you that we have had statements both from Ivan Abramovitch and Mr. Grell that you were there." He eyed her sternly. She made an expressive gesture with her white hands, and her rings sparkled in the electric light. "I'll not dispute it in the circumstances."
For ten minutes or more Ralph Fairfield remained, his fingers twitching at the buttons of his waistcoat. A revulsion of feeling had come. Had he done right? Was Grell's course the wisest, after all? How had his own feelings towards Eileen influenced him in his decision not to help the man who had been his friend?
Because I thought that if put to it you might prove your innocence or take the only course that could spare her the degradation of seeing the man she loved convicted as a murderer." A grim unmirthful smile parted Robert Grell's lips. He understood well enough what was meant. "You always were a good friend, Fairfield," he retorted. "Perhaps you have a revolver you could lend me."
It was with an eagerness sternly suppressed that Heldon Foyle took from a messenger the note which he knew contained Grell's advertisement. Although outwardly he was the least emotional of men, he always worked at high tension in the investigation of a case.
We know that Grell is alive, that he is in touch with Ivan Abramovitch and Lola Rachael or the Princess Petrovska, as she calls herself. There is at least one other man in it probably more. It's fairly certain that Grell knows who killed Harry Goldenburg even if he didn't do it himself. Goldenburg was apparently dressed in Grell's clothes before he was killed.
Well, at any rate he could rely on Blake and his assistants to find out whether she had received letters or messages. The matter was out of his hands, and it was not his habit to worry about affairs which he could not influence. That Heldon Foyle had come so closely on the heels of Grell's message was something of a shock to Eileen.
The sodden earth still retained wheel tracks, and it needed but a glance to show that the car had been removed but a few hours before. He walked on till he came to the place where Green had found the strip of brown cloth, which was fairly plain to find, for the footsteps of Green and the other police officers when they followed the trail ceased there as Grell's had done.
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