Foyle rubbed his chin and handed the weapon to Grant without replying. "Get one of your men to photograph those and have them enlarged. At any
rate, it's something to go on with. It would be as well to compare 'em with the records, though I doubt whether that will be of much use." He drew his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. "Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I should like to have the room to myself for a little while. And, Grant, send Green and the photographer up, and tell Waverley to act with Bolt in examining the servants."
The room cleared. Harding lingered to exchange a few words with the superintendent.
"I can do nothing, Mr. Foyle," he said. "From a medical point of view it is all straightforward. There can be no question about the time and cause of death. Good night,—or rather, good morning."
"Thank you, Mr. Harding, good morning."
His eyes were roving restlessly about the room, and he dictated the work the photographer was to do with scrupulous care. Half a dozen times a dazzling flash of magnesium powder lit up the place. Photographs of the room in sections were being taken. Then with a curt order to the photographer to return immediately to Scotland Yard and develop his negatives, he drew up a chair to the couch and began to go methodically through the pockets of the dead man.
Green stood by, a note-book in hand. Now and again Foyle dictated swiftly. He was a man who knew the value of order and system. Every step in the investigation of a crime is reduced to writing, collected, indexed, and filed together, so that the whole history of a case is instantly available at any time. He was carrying out the regular routine.
Only two things of any consequence rewarded his
search—one was a note from Sir Ralph Fairfield confirming an appointment with Grell to dine at the St. Jermyn's Club the previous evening; the other was a miniature set in diamonds of a girl, dark and black-haired, with an insolent piquant beauty.
"I've seen that face before somewhere," mused the superintendent. "Green, there's a 'Who's Who' on the desk behind you. I want Sir Ralph Fairfield."