truth would only sound lame if he were to tell it. Who would believe it? Like a man stricken dumb he descended in the lift with Green, out into the wild night in a taxicab, his thoughts a chaos.
He was neither a coward nor a fool. He had known close acquaintance with sudden death before. But that was different. It had not happened so. He was incapable of connected thought. One thing only he was clear upon—he must see Eileen, tell her the truth and throw himself on her mercy. Meanwhile he would answer no questions until he had considered the matter quietly.
This was his state of mind when he shook hands with Foyle. He had schooled his voice, and it was in a quiet tone that he spoke.
"It's a horrible thing, this," he said, twirling his hat between his long, nervous fingers.
Foyle was studying him closely. The movement of the hands was not lost upon him.
"Yes," he agreed, stroking his chin. "I asked you to come here because Mr. Grell dined with you last night. Do you know if he left you to keep an appointment?"
"No—that is, it might have been so. He left me, and I understood he would be back. He did not return."
"At what time?"
Fairfield hesitated a second before replying. Then, "I haven't the remotest idea."
The face of Foyle gave no indication of the surprise he felt. He did not press the question, but slid off to another.