h somewhat sallow cheeks on
which there was now a hectic flush, a high-pitched forehead that seemed
to have contracted into a perpetual frown, and colourless eyes. The son
of a well-known barrister, he had tried his luck in the City after
leaving Cambridge. In a few years the respectable income he had started
with had dwindled under the drain of his speculations, and it was then
that a friend had recommended him to Robert Grell, who was about to take
up his residence in England. James Lomont had jumped at the chance, for
the salary was respectable and would enable him to maintain a certain
footing in society.

"Not Robert Grell!" he echoed incredulously.

Foyle fancied that there was some quality other than incredulity in the
tone, but decided that he was mistaken. The young man's nerves were
shaken up. So far as time would allow he had gathered all there was to
know about him. Lomont had not escaped the network of inquiry that was
being woven about all who had associated with Robert Grell.

No fewer than three chapters in a book the Criminal Investigation
Department had commenced compiling were devoted to him. They lay with
others neatly typed and indexed in Heldon Foyle's office.

One was his signed statement of events on the night of the tragedy. The
last time he had seen Grell alive was at half-past six, when his
employer had left for the St. Jermyn's Club. He himself had gone to the
Savoy Theatre, and, returning some time after eleven, had let himself in
with his own key and gone straight to bed. He had only been aroused when
the police took possession of the house. The third was headed:
"Inquiries as to career of, and corroboration of statements made by,
James Lomont."

The curtains had remained drawn, and only a dim light filtered through
into the room. Foyle lifted a little green-shaded electric lamp from the
table, and switched on the light so that it fell on the face of the dead
man.

"Look," he said, in a quiet voice, "do you recognise your chief?"

The young man flung back his shoulders with a jerk, as though overcoming
his own feelings, and approached the body with evident distaste. His
hands, slender as a woman's, were tight-clenched, and his breath came
and went in nervous spasms. For a moment he gazed, and then shook his
head weakly.

"It is not," he whispered with dry lips. "There is an old scar across
the temple. Mr. Grell's face was not disfigured." He stretched out a
hand and clutched the s