knock at the door heralded the entrance of a messenger, who
laid an envelope on the table and silently disappeared.

"Western Union," muttered the superintendent. "This may be something
else from Pinkerton's, Sir Hilary. Don't go yet." And, tearing open the
envelope, he crossed the room and pulled down a code-book. In a little
he had deciphered the cable. "We're getting closer," he said.
"Pinkerton's have got hold of 'Billy the Scribe,' who identified the
photograph of the dagger with which the murder was committed as one that
he believes was in the possession of Henry Goldenburg when he last saw
him. That may be fancy or invention, or it may be important. Hello! what
is it?"

It was Green who had interrupted the conference. "Lady Eileen Meredith,
sir--Machin reports that she left her home at five this morning, walked
to Charing Cross Station, bought a copy of the _Daily Wire_, looked
hurriedly through it, and then worked out something on a small notebook.
Then she returned home, and came out again in half an hour's time and
went to Waterloo Bridge floating station. There she asked to see one of
the detective branch, and they referred her to headquarters at Wapping
after nine this morning. Machin says he had no chance to telephone
through before. She has not gone to Wapping," he added, as he saw the
eyes of his chief seek the clock. "She went straight back home and has
not come out since."

A low whistle came from between Foyle's teeth and his eyes met Thornton.
"She knew the advertisement was to appear in the _Daily Wire_, and she
got up early to warn Grell that we know, in case he should give an
address. She did not discover a little paragraph of Mr. Green's
invention till after she returned home, and then her curiosity was
stirred, and she hoped, by going to Waterloo, to find a subordinate
detective whom she might pump. What do you think, Green?"

"I agree with you, sir. She'll turn up here later, I shouldn't wonder."

Sir Hilary Thornton strode to the door, returning the greeting of
Wrington, whom he passed as he retired. The river man was evidently
pleased with himself. Foyle took a place in front of the fire and
waited.

"Had a cold night?" he queried.

"Been too busy to think about it, sir," he chuckled. "We discovered that
the owners of the barge engaged the man who gave the name of Floyd on
the written recommendation of a firm of steamship agents--that, by the
way, was forged, for the agents deny all kn