s clothes with one
hand even while he answered.

"That you, sir?"... The voice at the other end was tremulous and
excited. "This is the Yard speaking--Flack. Mr. Grell, the American
explorer, has been killed--murdered ... yes ... at his house in
Grosvenor Gardens. The butler found him...."

When a man has passed thirty years in the service of the Criminal
Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard his nerves are pretty well
shock-proof. Few emergencies can shake him--not even the murder of so
distinguished a man as Robert Grell. Heldon Foyle gave a momentary gasp,
and then wasted no further time in astonishment. There were certain
obvious things to be done at once. For, up to a point, the science of
detection is merely a matter of routine. He flung back his orders curtly
and concisely.

"Right. I'm coming straight down. I suppose the local division inspector
is on it. Send for Chief Inspector Green and Inspector Waverley, and let
the finger-print people know. I shall want one of their best men. Let
one of our photographers go to the house and wait for me. Send a
messenger to Professor Harding, and telephone to the assistant
commissioner. Tell any of the people who are at the house not to touch
anything and to detain every one there. And Flack--Flack. Not a word to
the newspaper men. We don't want any leakage yet."

He hung up the receiver and began to dress hurriedly, but methodically.
He was a methodical man. Resolutely he put from his mind all thoughts of
the murder. No good would come of spinning theories until he had all the
available facts.

For ten years Heldon Foyle had been the actual executive chief of the
Criminal Investigation Department. He rarely wore a dressing-gown and
never played the violin. But he had a fine taste in cigars, and was as
well-dressed a man as might be found between Temple Bar and Hyde Park
Corner. He did not wear policemen's boots, nor, for the matter of that,
would he have allowed any of the six hundred odd men who were under his
control to wear them. He would have passed without remark in a crowd of
West-end clubmen. It is an aim of the good detective to fit his
surroundings, whether they be in Kensington or the Whitechapel Road.

A suggestion of immense strength was in his broad shoulders and deep
chest. His square, strong face and heavy jaw was redeemed from sternness
by a twinkle of humour in the eyes. That same sense of humour had often
saved him from making mistakes, alt