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Updated: June 10, 2025
He was in the position of a man who might solve a puzzle by hard, painstaking experiment and inquiry, but rather hoped that some brilliant flash of inspiration or luck might give him the key that would fit it together at once. They rarely do come. Once Lomont, Grell's secretary, knocked and entered with a question on his lips. Foyle waved him impatiently away. "I will see you later on, Mr. Lomont.
This man is not Robert Grell, though he is astonishingly like him. Now, Mr. Lomont, I rely on you not to breathe a word of this to a living soul until I give you permission. This secret must remain between our two selves for the time being." "Certainly." In spite of his air of candour, Heldon Foyle had not revealed all he knew. He left the house pondering deeply.
In a few years the respectable income he had started with had dwindled under the drain of his speculations, and it was then that a friend had recommended him to Robert Grell, who was about to take up his residence in England. James Lomont had jumped at the chance, for the salary was respectable and would enable him to maintain a certain footing in society.
He himself had gone to the Savoy Theatre, and, returning some time after eleven, had let himself in with his own key and gone straight to bed. He had only been aroused when the police took possession of the house. The third was headed: "Inquiries as to career of, and corroboration of statements made by, James Lomont."
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