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Updated: May 10, 2025
"A murrain on y'r sowl!" said he, "as there's plague in y'r body, and hell in the slide of y'r feet, like the trail of the red spider. And out o' that come ye, Heldon, for I know y're there. Out of that, ye beast! . . . But how can ye go back you that's rolled in that sewer to the loveliest woman that ever trod the neck o' the world!
Rough, tousled hair, an unkempt moustache, and a day's growth of beard on the chin were details warranted to stand inspection. Heldon Foyle rarely used a disguise, but when he did he was careful that nothing should get out of order. Hair and moustache were his own, dyed and brushed cunningly.
"That you must find out either from Mr. Grell or her. I don't know." Foyle drew out his watch. "All right, Ivan. I'll see you again shortly. Meanwhile, I'll send some one along to get your statement. I don't think you'll regret having decided to speak. Good-bye." Both Sir Hilary Thornton and Chief Inspector Green were waiting for Heldon Foyle when he returned to his office.
When Sir Ralph Fairfield returned to his chambers, he found Heldon Foyle seated before the fire engrossed in a paper and with his feet stretched out to the cheerful blaze. "Good morning, Sir Ralph," said the detective, rising. "I just dropped in as I was near here to tell you how things were progressing, and to see if you'd got any news."
The tall straight figure of Heldon Foyle, with coat collar turned high up, had passed him once without sign of recognition and vanished in the enveloping shadow of the slight fog that confused the night. Yet, though the superintendent had apparently paid no heed, he was entirely alert, and he had not failed to observe Freddy. What he wanted was to see who else was in the street.
Pierre pointed to a woman's hat on the table. "Do you know that"? he asked, huskily, for he was moved. But Heldon only nodded dazedly. Pierre continued: "I was to have met Tom Liffey here to-night. He is not here. You hoped I suppose to see your wife in your home. She is not there. He left a word on paper for me. I have torn it up. Writing is the enemy of man. But I know where he is gone.
If you 'phone me when you get down there, I'll let you know how things stand." Green had his hand on the handle of the door, but suddenly something occurred to him. "Do you think she's gone with him, sir?" Heldon Foyle made a little gesture of dissent. "I don't think it likely. It would double the danger of identification. But we can soon find if she's gone back to her home.
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.
Two hours later a wild-eyed, breathless servant bareheaded in the pouring rain, was stammering incoherently to a police-constable in Grosvenor Gardens that Mr. Robert Grell had been found murdered in his study. The shattering ring of the telephone awoke Heldon Foyle with a start.
She was not a person easily daunted, but the atmosphere chilled her. She reflected quickly that her refusal to explain the possession of the jewels was playing into Heldon Foyle's hands. He would guess that they were Eileen Meredith's in any case, she could not stop him from seeing and questioning the girl. What advantage would it be to be placed under lock and key?
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