by some incautious word, there was little to implicate him in the
murder. Suspicion there might be, but legal proof there was none. It
would scarcely do to arrest him on such flimsy evidence. The Russian
police had failed to trace his antecedents, and the Criminal
Investigation Department were ignorant even of his surname. He had been
known simply as Ivan at Grosvenor Gardens.

Foyle tried again, and this time his voice was silky and soft as ever as
he uttered a plainer threat.

"I want to help you if I can. I don't want to have to charge you with
the murder of Mr. Grell."

The warm blood surged crimson to Ivan's face. In an instant he was out
of his chair and had leapt at the throat of the detective. So rapid, so
unexpected was the movement that, although Heldon Foyle had not ceased
his careful watchfulness, and although he writhed quickly aside, he was
borne back by his assailant. The two crashed heavily to the floor. As
they rolled over, struggling desperately, the grip upon the detective's
throat grew ever tighter and tighter.

Half a dozen men had rushed into the room at the noise of the struggle,
and strove vainly to tear the Russian from his hold. But he hung on with
the tenacity of a mastiff. There was a ringing in Foyle's ear and a red
blur before his eyes. With a superhuman effort he got his elbow under
the Russian's chin and pressed it back sharply.

The grip relaxed ever so slightly, but it was enough. Instantly Foyle
had wrested himself free, and Ivan was pinioned to the floor by the
others.

"Handcuffs," said the superintendent sharply.

Some one got a pair on the prisoner's wrists, and he was jerked none too
gently to his feet. A couple of men still held him. At a word from Foyle
the others had gone about their business, with the exception of Norman.
The superintendent flicked the dust from his clothes, and picked
something, which had fallen during the struggle, from the floor.

"You admit you are Ivan, then?" he said quietly.

The Russian showed his teeth in a beast-like snarl.

"Yes, I am Ivan," he said. "Make what you can of that, but you cannot
have me hanged for the murder of Mr. Grell--_and you know why_."

"Because Mr. Grell is not dead," retorted the detective smoothly. "Yes,
I know that."

He counted the rough-and-tumble but little against the fact that the
Russian had now admitted that he knew it was not Grell's body that had
been found in the study. Here was a starting-point at la