one. "I don't know that she can
tell us anything of value."

An expression of relief flitted over the face of Grell's friend. After
all, it was something to have the worst postponed. A man may face swift
danger with debonair courage, may be undaunted by perils or emergencies
of sport, of travel, of everyday life. But few innocent men can believe
that a net is slowly closing round them which will end in the obloquy of
the Central Criminal Court, or in a shameful death, without feeling
something of the terror of the hunted. "The terror of the law" is very
real in such cases. Fairfield was no coward, but his nerves had begun to
go under the strain of the suspense. It would have been different had he
been able to do anything--to find relief in action. But he had to remain
passively impotent.

"Well," he said, "I expect you're very busy, Mr. Foyle. I don't want to
keep you."

The detective received the snub with an amiable smile. "I won't force my
company on you, Sir Ralph. If you will just dictate to me a description
of the string of pearls that Grell showed you, I will go. Can you let me
have a pen and some paper?"

Ungraciously enough Fairfield flung open a small inlaid writing-desk,
and Foyle took down the description as though he really needed it. As he
finished he held out the pen to Fairfield.

"Will you sign that, please? No, here."

Their hands were almost touching. Foyle half rose and stumbled clumsily,
clutching the other's wrist to save himself. The baronet's hand and
fingers were pressed down heavily on the still wet writing. The
detective recovered his balance and apologised profusely, at the same
time picking up the sheet of paper.

"I don't know how I came to do that. I am very sorry. It's smudged the
paper a bit, but that won't matter. It's still readable. Good-bye, Sir
Ralph."

So admirably had the accident been contrived that even Fairfield never
suspected that it was anything but genuine. In a public telephone-box, a
few hundred yards away, Heldon Foyle was examining the half-sheet of
notepaper side by side with the photograph of the finger-prints on the
dagger. A telephone-box is admirably constructed for the private
examination of documents if one's back is towards the door and one is
bent over the directory. Line by line Foyle traced "laterals," "lakes,"
and "accidentals," calling to his aid a magnifying glass from his
waistcoat pocket.

When he emerged he was rubbing his chin vigorously. T