The police court proceedings in connection with the gambling-joint in Smike Street had opened satisfactorily so far as the police were concerned. All the prisoners but the principals and those involved in the attack on Heldon Foyle had been subjected to small fines, and were, as the legal phrase goes, "bound over." The remainder had been remanded for a week at the request of the prosecuting solicitor, a half-hearted request for bail being refused.

For the first time since he had attained the rank of superintendent, Foyle himself had gone into the witness-box. That was unavoidable, as he was the only man who could give direct evidence of the character of the house. Hitherto he had arranged so that the court work fell on his subordinates while he gave his attention to organisation and administrative detail; for the giving of evidence is only the end of the work of a detective. There are men behind the scenes in most cases that come into the criminal courts who are never told off, happenings never referred to. They are summed up in the phrase "Acting on information received, I——" The business of a detective is to secure his prisoner and give evidence, not to tell how it was done.

"Still no news from Liverpool," said the superintendent as he left the court with Green. "I begin to wish I'd sent you down there. That woman has got the knack of vanishing."

"Yes," agreed his lieutenant, producing a well-worn brier and pressing the tobacco down with a horny thumb. "And yet people think we've got an easy job. Lola knows her business, and I'm open to bet she'll not be found before she wants to be found."

Foyle chuckled at this enunciation of rank heresy. Only a veteran of Green's experience would have dared question the ability of Scotland Yard to maintain a scent once picked up. The superintendent did not take the pessimism too seriously. In theory it is not difficult for one person to disappear among forty millions, but to remain hidden indefinitely, in the face of a vigorous, sustained search by men trained to their business is not so simple in practice.

"You've got a habit of looking on the worst side of things," he laughed. "I've never known us want any one we knew badly but what we got 'em at last. Besides, Blake's down there, and he's a good man. He's got a personal interest in running her down now."

"H'm," commented Green, in the tone of one not entirely convinced, and lapsed into a stolid silence which would have irritated some men, but merely amused the superintendent.

They separated at the door of Foyle's room at headquarters, and an impatient detective-sergeant, whose duty it was to weed out callers, promptly headed Heldon Foyle off.

"A man's been waiting to see you, sir," he said. "He refused to give his name, but said he had some important information which he would only give to you personally. He wouldn't hear of seeing any one else."

"Yes, of course. They've all got important information, and they all want to see me personally—or else the Commissioner. Well, where is he, Shapton? Show him in."

"I can't. He's gone, sir. He'd been waiting here half an hour or so when he was taken away by Sir Ralph Fairfield."

If he had not been trained to school his feelings, Heldon Foyle might have started. As it was, he picked up a pen and toyed idly with it. The man, who had a fair idea that his news was of importance, was a little disappointed.

"I see," said the superintendent. "What happened?"

"Why, Sir Ralph asked to see you and was shown into the waiting-room with the other man. They both seemed a bit upset, and the first chap's jaw dropped. 'So you are here,' says Sir Ralph, a bit angrily. 'Yes, sir,' says the other, and he had become sulky. 'This is my man,' says Sir Ralph to me, 'and I would like a word with him alone, if you don't mind.' Of course, I left 'em alone. In a quarter of an hour they came out, and Sir Ralph told me that there had been a little misunderstanding—that neither of them wished to see you after all."

"Thank you, Shapton," said the superintendent, resting his chin on his hand. "Ask Mr. Green if he can spare a moment, will you?"

In the interval that elapsed before the chief inspector came, Foyle did some quick thinking. Criminal investigation is always full of unexpected developments, and this seemed to him to offer possibilities. It was clear to him that a man had come to Scotland Yard to give some information, and that Fairfield had followed post-haste to shut the man's mouth. For the moment he put aside all speculation as to the baronet's motive. The question was, who was the man he had taken away? Who would be likely to know something? It must be some one intimately associated with the baronet, some one who probably lived with him. There was only one man—his servant.

The line of reasoning became clear. What would a servant know which he would recognise as of obvious importance? Fairfield might have received a letter from Grell, but if he did not wish to let the police know of it, he would scarcely have been careless enough to leave it where his man might have obtained access to it. The second solution was more probable. Suppose Grell had paid a visit to Fairfield and the man had recognised him?

Foyle was not led away by theories. He knew that the most ingenious deductions often led to failure. But in this case he had nothing to lose by putting the matter to the test. He had not taken off his hat or coat, and when Green came in he was ready to put his plan into execution. In a few words he told what had happened and his conclusions.

"What I want you to do, Green, is to ring up Fairfield and get him out of the way on some pretext. Keep him here till I come back. I'm going to have a talk with that servant. If you can't get him on the 'phone, you'll have to go round and get him out somehow. I want a good man whom he doesn't know to come to the Albany with me. Give me a chance to get there before you ring up."

"Very good, sir. Maxwell is free. I'll tell him you want him."

In a quarter of an hour Maxwell, an unobtrusive, well-dressed man, had taken up his station and was casually loitering where he could see all who entered or emerged from the Albany. Foyle himself was out of view, but he had a fine sight of his subordinate. Ten minutes elapsed. The well-dressed detective dropped the stick he was listlessly swinging between his fingers, and Foyle knew that Sir Ralph had risen to the bait. It remained to be found out whether the servant was still in the chambers.

Waiting just long enough for Fairfield to get a reasonable distance away, Foyle was whirled up in the lift to the baronet's rooms. His first pressure on the bell remained unanswered, but at a second and longer ring he was confronted by the upright figure of Roberts. The servant gave a little gasp of astonishment as he saw his visitor.

"Sir Ralph is out, sir," he stammered.

"Yes, I know," said the detective pleasantly. "I did not come here to see Sir Ralph, but to see you. You know who I am. Let me in, won't you?"

He pushed his way into the place and entered the sitting-room, Roberts following closely behind him. The man was evidently very nervous. Foyle sat down.

"Now, my man, you needn't feel nervous. Your master won't be back yet awhile. You came to my office to see me this morning, and left before I got back. I've come to see what this important information you've got for me is."

Roberts shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rubbed his hands together nervously. His eyes never met the superintendent's. "It's all a mistake," he asserted unsteadily. "I—I——"

"That won't do, my man," said Foyle brusquely. "You know something which it is important I should know. Sir Ralph has told you to keep your mouth shut. But you're going to tell me before either of us leaves this room. I want you to speak now. Never mind about thinking of a lie."

His blunt manner had its effect. Roberts drew himself together. "Right, sir, I'll tell you what I came about. You're a gentleman and won't see me a loser. Sir Ralph, he promised to look after me if I kept my mouth shut."

It is no part of a detective's duty to allow personal feelings to interfere with his business. Foyle's contempt for a man who was ready to bargain to betray his master's confidence was sunk in his content at so easily obtaining his ends. "That will be all right," he answered. "You'll be paid according to the value of your information."

"Then it's this, sir," blurted out Roberts. "Mr. Grell, whom you thought was murdered, is not dead. He came here an hour or two ago, and was in with Sir Ralph for quite a time."

"Oh." The detective smiled incredulously, and snapping open his cigar-case selected a smoke, nipped off the end, and deliberately struck a match. "You've got hold of some cock-and-bull idea. I suppose you've deceived yourself with some fancied resemblance."

"It was Mr. Grell himself, I tell you," averred the servant earnestly. "Don't I know him well enough? He was roughly dressed and had shaved off his moustache, but I'm certain of it. He came up by the lift as large as life with a note for Sir Ralph. I didn't notice him much at first, because I thought he was a street messenger. But when Sir Ralph told me to bring him in I had a good look at him. I knew I had seen him before, but the change in him threw me off for a while. It was only after I left him with Sir Ralph that it came on me like a shot. I knew that there was a reward out in connection with the murder, and I came on to you at once. If you had been in I should have told you all this then, but Sir Ralph came after me and promised to pay me well to keep my tongue between my teeth. But right is right, sir, and I hope you'll do what you can for me. For I'll take my dying oath that the man I saw here was Mr. Grell."

With calm, expressionless face Foyle listened. His inferences were justified. It would be necessary to keep Roberts from gossipping, and for that reason it was policy to discount the importance of his information. The detective puffed a cloud of smoke to the ceiling.

"You seem pretty sure of yourself. I think you've made a mistake, but we'll go into the thing fully and you'll get whatever your information is worth. How long was this chap in with your master?"

"I don't know. I didn't see him come out. He had been in there about ten minutes when I started out to see you."

"Right. Now I'm going to wait here till your master comes back. You can deny that I have questioned you, or that you have told me anything, if you like. I shan't give you away. Where's the telephone?"

With a little breath of relief the servant conducted Foyle to an inner room and pointed out the instrument. A few seconds sufficed to put the superintendent in communication with Green, and in a quick, low-voiced conversation he was told what device had been practised to keep Sir Ralph away.

"I'll let him go now, then?" said Green, and his superior assented.

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."