finished his work at Scotland
Yard. He had had a long interview with the Garden of Eden, in which
promises were adroitly mingled with threats. In the result the
"bunco-steerer" had promised to keep his eyes and ears alert for news of
any one resembling Goldenburg. There was a string of other callers who
had been discreetly sorted out by the superintendent's diplomatic
lieutenants. Finally, he pulled out the book which dealt with the case,
and with the aid of a typist added several more chapters. With a sigh of
relief, he at last sauntered out into the cool, fresh midnight air.

Nine o'clock next morning saw him again in his office. Sir Hilary
Thornton was his first caller. Foyle put aside his reports at his
chief's opening question.

"Yes, we've taken every human precaution to preserve secrecy," he
replied. "Every one who knows that it is not Grell's body in the house
has been pledged to hold his tongue. I have managed to get the inquest
put back for three days, so that there will be no evidence of
identification till then. That gives us a chance. And I've made out a
confidential report to be sent to the Foreign Office, so that Grell's
Government shan't get restive. Here are the latest reports, sir."

The Assistant Commissioner bent over the sheaf of typewritten documents
for a little in complete absorption. As he came to the last sheet he
gave a start of surprise.

"So you let this man Ivan go? Do you think that wise?"

"I'm fishing," answered Foyle enigmatically. "I couldn't have better
bait than Ivan. There are three men sticking to him like limpets now,
and a couple are keeping an eye on Sir Ralph Fairfield. I think that
will be all right. Do you remember the Mighton Grange case? We knew
there had been a murder, but couldn't do anything till we found the
body. Dutful, the murderer, would have slid off to some place where
there's no extradition, but for the fact that I had him arrested on a
charge of being in the unlawful possession of a pickaxe handle. This
affair is the converse of that. We can't afford to have Ivan under lock
and key."

Sir Hilary Thornton bit his lip and looked steadfastly at the scarlet
geranium on the window-sill, as though in search of enlightenment.

"I believe I see," he exclaimed after a pause. "Ivan must have been
something more than a valet. He's a superior type of man, and the
conclusion to be drawn if he knows that Grell is alive----"

"Precisely," interrupted the superintenden