grinned knowingly as he thrilled all over with the knowledge
that the Scotland Yard man was making a confidant of him. It was one of
Foyle's ways always to attach as many people as he could to his object.
He had an extensive acquaintance with waiters and hotel hall-porters.

"Yes, sir, I think I can arrange that," said the footman. "I can put you
in her own sitting-room, and she'll most likely go straight there when
she comes back."

"That's the ticket," said Foyle. "I like a man who's got brains." A
sovereign changed hands. "Now, if you ever hear anything, perhaps you'll
let me know. Drop into my office when you're by and have a chat and a
cigar."

"I will that, sir," said the man. "Thank you, sir."

Heldon Foyle was left alone in the room. He sat quite still for a
little, but his eyes were busy. At last he rose and aimlessly paced the
floor once or twice. In the grate a dull fire was burning, and a few
fragments of blackened paper lay on the dying coals. Here and there a
word stood out in a mouldy grey against a black background. Foyle did
not touch the paper till he had read:--

"... both ... minent ... sufficient money to ... ade for ... Petrov
... guesse ... fear ... timately exposure must come. If ... open
cheque ... ther ... gold, and bring ... God's sake ... desperate."

Foyle's lips puckered into a whistle as he transferred the words to his
pocket-book. He dared not touch the fragments till he had done so, and
every moment he feared that some draught might destroy the whole thing.
His keen professional instincts were saddened by the impossibility of
saving what might be an important piece of evidence. Under favourable
circumstances there might have been some chance of retrieving and
preserving it by blocking the chimney to prevent a draught and then
carefully sticking the burnt fragments with gum on to transparent paper.
But that method was impossible. Foyle tried gingerly to rescue the
fragments, but a burst of flame frustrated him, and a moment later they
were destroyed.

An ejaculation of annoyance escaped his lips, and he turned to the
dainty little desk at another portion of the room. It was locked, but
that was a matter of little consequence. Like most detectives, Foyle
carried a bunch of keys rather larger than are to be found in the
possession of the ordinary man, and the fourth that he tried fitted.

The neat interior slab of the desk was clear and tidy. One or two
letters of no