lips. Disgrace by the fear of a public trial had failed to move him. If he was to be induced to tell his secret it must be by strategy.
Heldon Foyle held his own code of ethics in his profession. In his own mind he held that all things which were legal were permissible in facilitating the ends of justice. Grell could, if he were so minded, give sworn evidence on what Foyle could only suspect. Grimly the superintendent resolved that in a contest of will he would win.
A gentle tap at the door broke his train of reflection, and the white face of the housekeeper peered in. Her eyes rested first on the sleeping man, but his attitude concealed the handcuffs. She turned a half-frightened glance on Foyle.
"Excuse me, sir. I couldn't sleep, so I dressed, and thought I would look in to see if Mr. Grell or you would like anything. Perhaps a cup of coffee——"
"No, thank you," said the superintendent. "By the way, now you're here you'll perhaps tell me whether you expected Mr. Grell's arrival. Didn't you think he was dead?"
She advanced a little into the room, closing the door behind her. "That I did, sir," she answered timorously. "I couldn't make it out when I got his telegram from Liverpool. It gave me a shock."
"From Liverpool?" repeated Foyle slowly. "So he sent a wire from Liverpool, did he? Would you mind if I had a look at it?"
He could see the hesitation in her face and went on: "See here, Mrs. Ellis, there has been a murder, though, fortunately, Mr. Grell was not the victim. I am inter
ested in the matter, and you will be acting in his interests if you show it to me."
"I don't know what to do, I'm sure," quavered the woman irresolutely. "I was supposed to have burnt it. Hadn't I better wake him up, and then he can let you look if he likes?"