"Wait till daylight and then send one of the maids with a message to the nearest police station," replied Foyle. "Would you like a cigar? I can recommend these."
He proffered his case and Grell took one. He held it between his fingers with a whimsical smile. "Do you mind cutting it and giving me a light?" he asked. "It's rather awkward with these—er—ornaments."
The superintendent did as he was requested and Grell puffed luxuriously. Foyle remained silent. Although he was aching to put questions he dared not. "Do you really think that I killed Harry Goldenburg?" asked Grell suddenly.
"I don't know," confessed the superintendent non-committally. "I think you may have."
"Yes. That's a pity," said Grell, lifting his cigar to his mouth. "This affair must have cost you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Foyle. And it's all wasted, because, of course, I had nothing to do with it."
"I want to know," said Foyle, a bit of American vernacular that came from his lips unconsciously.
"Tell me why you never announced that I was alive?" asked Grell. "You'll have to do it, you know."
"Well, there's no harm in admitting now that one idea was to make you think that we were deceived, and so to throw you off your guard."
"And it did until you got hold of Ivan. Well, you've made a mistake this time, Mr. Foyle. There were
finger-prints on the dagger with which Goldenburg was killed, eh?"