se when some American toughs went
through that jeweller a month or two back. We might as well look into
it, though. These people are wily customers, or they wouldn't have kept
you from seeing the rest of the gang. They tried to frighten us by
threatening to make away with you. I think it likely that they found it
rather a nuisance to look after you--especially when Green and I tumbled
on to some of their people an hour ago. You haven't exactly covered
yourself with glory, Waverley, but under the circumstances I shall take
no disciplinary action. Now go and write out a full report, and then go
home. The police surgeon will recommend what leave of absence you want
to get over the stab in the arm. Good night--or rather, good morning."

"Thank you, sir. Good morning, sir."

Foyle never forgot discipline, which is as necessary, or more necessary
within limits, in a detective service as in any other specialised
business. To have sympathised with Waverley would have been bad policy.
He had been made to feel that he had blundered in some way, and the
feeling with which he had entered the room, that he was a martyr to
duty, had vanished in the conviction that he was simply a fool.

Foyle lit a cigar and fell into a reverie that lasted perhaps ten
minutes. He was glad that Waverley was safe, but a little disgusted that
he had failed to baffle the precautions taken while he was a prisoner,
and so have learnt something that might have been of value in the
investigations. Presently he lifted the telephone receiver and ordered a
taxicab from the all-night rank in Trafalgar Square. In a little while
he was being whirled homeward.

Not till midday next day did he arrive at the Yard. A slip of paper was
lying on his desk--the record of a telephone message from the
Southampton police. It read--

"Halford, Chief Constable, Southampton, to Foyle, C.I.D., London.

"Car No. A.A. 4796 belongs to Mr. J. Price, The Grange, Lyndhurst.
Mr. Price is an old resident in the neighbourhood and a man of
means. The car is a six-cylinder Napier."

"As I thought," commented Heldon Foyle thoughtfully, tearing the paper
into little bits and dropping them into the waste-paper basket. "The
number was a false one. They knew that Waverley would have a look at the
number. Oh, these people are cunning--cunning."

Green found him, half an hour later, hard at work with the collection of
typewritten sheets which formed the book of the cas