give us the slip. He hadn't much time to get away. By the way, sir, what do you think of Sir Ralph?"
"I don't know. He's keeping something back for some reason. You'd better have him shadowed, Green. Go yourself, and take a good man with you. He mustn't be let out of sight night or day. I may tackle him again later on."
"Very good, sir. Waverley's still at Grosvenor Gardens. Will you be going back there?"
"I don't know. I want to look through the records of the Convict Supervision Office for the last ten years. I have an idea that I may strike something."
Green was too wise a man to ask questions of his chief. He slipped from the room. Half an hour later Foyle dashed out of the room hatless, and, picking up a taxicab, drove at top speed to Grosvenor Gardens. He was greeted at the door by Lomont.
"What is it?" he demanded, the excitement of the detective communicating itself to him. "Have you carried the case any further?"
"I don't know," replied the detective. "I must see the body again. Come up with me."
In the death-chamber he carefully locked the door. A heavy ink-well stood on the desk. He twisted up a piece of paper and dipped it in. Then, approaching the murdered man, he smeared the fingers of his right hand with the blackened paper and pressed them lightly on a piece of blotting paper. The secretary, in utter bewilderment, watched him compare the prints with a piece of paper he took from his pocket.
"What is it?" he repeated again.