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Updated: May 10, 2025
It is permissible in certain circumstances for the police to detain a suspect, without making any charge, for a period of not more than twenty-four hours. Heldon Foyle had taken advantage of this to hold Grell while he tried to draw further together the tangled threads of the investigation.
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.
They never saw him come out." "Do you mean to say that Grell has been here here to-day?" demanded Fairfield, putting as bold a face on the matter as was possible. "I do," said Foyle quietly. "Without my knowledge?" Heldon Foyle shook his head, and thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets faced the baronet squarely. "That's what I want to know. Was it without your knowledge, Sir Ralph?"
He was hers, body and soul, and she had resolved on a grim thing.... In the darkness, they left the hut and passed into the woods, and slowly up through the hills. Heldon returned to his home that night to find it empty. There were no servants. There was no wife. Her cat and dog lay dead upon the hearthrug. Her clothing was cut into strips. Her wedding-dress was a charred heap on the fireplace.
Heldon Foyle was left alone in the room. He sat quite still for a little, but his eyes were busy. At last he rose and aimlessly paced the floor once or twice. In the grate a dull fire was burning, and a few fragments of blackened paper lay on the dying coals. Here and there a word stood out in a mouldy grey against a black background. Foyle did not touch the paper till he had read:
Indeed, as he climbed the wide flight of steps at the main entrance, it seemed as though no palpable interval of time had elapsed since he had been practically turned out of her father's house by Eileen Meredith. Heldon Foyle put away the bundle of documents that contained the history of the case as the baronet was announced, and waved his visitor to a chair. "Well?" he asked.
Besides, the appearance of prosperity of the "mug" spoke of a possible "leather" stuffed with banknotes. Decidedly, even in the absence of a "stall," it was worth chancing. And then Foyle got on and spoilt it all. If any one on the tramcar lost anything he would know who to blame. For Heldon Foyle had spoiled one of the greatest coups that ever a crook had been on the verge of bringing off.
This was the place Heldon Foyle had made up his mind to enter single-handed a place in which the precautions against surprise were so complete that every article which could be identified as a gambling implement was made of material which could be readily burnt, or soluble at a temperature lower than that of boiling water.
I give you first chance, as a pal. You can take it or leave it." "Right, I'm on," agreed Freddy. The compact between Heldon Foyle and Sir Ralph Fairfield had begun to bear fruit. For three days an advertisement had appeared in the personal column of the Daily Wire "Will R. G. communicate with R. F. Very anxious." Much thought had gone to the wording of the line.
A dozen paces behind her went the workman, and a dozen paces behind him the frock-coated man. Heldon Foyle had selected his subordinates well for their work. Acting on the policy of leaving nothing to chance, he had taken a hint from the advertisement addressed to Eileen, and had the office watched from the time it opened.
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