Although Foyle was tolerably well known to the prison officials, the usual formalities had to be gone through, and he was kept outside till a note he had pencilled was sent up and replied to by the governor. Then, conducted by a warder, he was taken over the flagged courtyard and through long corridors to the remand side of the prison.
Another warder opened one of the heavy cell doors, and a man seated on a low bed looked up with a frown of recognition. The superintendent remained standing by the doorway. "Sorry to trouble you, Abramovitch," he said briskly. "I just wanted to have a little talk with you."
Ivan rose and deliberately turned his back. "You must go to my solicitor if you have any questions to ask," he said sullenly.
Heldon Foyle seated himself at the end of the bed and nursed his stick. "That wouldn't be of much use, would it?" he asked smilingly. "What I want to speak to you about has nothing to do with the present charge against you. Mr. Grell is in our hands now, and in
the circumstances I thought you might care to know it."
The valet wheeled about and thrust his face close to the immobile face of the detective.
"You've arrested Mr. Grell?" he cried. "Are you lying?"
"I am not lying. He is in custody and may be charged unless you like to clear him."
Ivan took a couple of short steps. His lips were firmly pressed together. The detective watched him narrowly as he came to an abrupt halt.
"You think I can clear him?" he said slowly. "You are wrong."