known to the prison officials, the
usual formalities had to be gone through, and he was kept outside till a
note he had pencilled was sent up and replied to by the governor. Then,
conducted by a warder, he was taken over the flagged courtyard and
through long corridors to the remand side of the prison.

Another warder opened one of the heavy cell doors, and a man seated on a
low bed looked up with a frown of recognition. The superintendent
remained standing by the doorway. "Sorry to trouble you, Abramovitch,"
he said briskly. "I just wanted to have a little talk with you."

Ivan rose and deliberately turned his back. "You must go to my solicitor
if you have any questions to ask," he said sullenly.

Heldon Foyle seated himself at the end of the bed and nursed his stick.
"That wouldn't be of much use, would it?" he asked smilingly. "What I
want to speak to you about has nothing to do with the present charge
against you. Mr. Grell is in our hands now, and in the circumstances I
thought you might care to know it."

The valet wheeled about and thrust his face close to the immobile face
of the detective.

"You've arrested Mr. Grell?" he cried. "Are you lying?"

"I am not lying. He is in custody and may be charged unless you like to
clear him."

Ivan took a couple of short steps. His lips were firmly pressed
together. The detective watched him narrowly as he came to an abrupt
halt.

"You think I can clear him?" he said slowly. "You are wrong."

"But you know he never committed the murder?" The words came sharp as a
pistol shot. Ivan never answered, and Foyle went on: "You have done all
you could to help him escape us. Now we have got him you can only help
him by telling the truth. There was some strong motive to induce you to
take all the risks you have done. What is at the back of it?"

Ivan studied his questioner suspiciously. Foyle made haste to dispel
what was at the back of his mind. "You had reason for refusing to speak
before," he insisted. "I'm not blaming you. Consider the thing fairly as
it stands now and you'll see that you best serve your master by perfect
frankness. I'm not trying to trap you. You may trust me."

The scowl on the face of the valet faded and his sloping shoulders
squared a little.

"You are right. Secrecy can no longer do good," he said. "I will tell
you what I know."

He sat down by Foyle's side and went on: "I was always what you English
call a bad egg. I broke with my family many