She sat down and rested her chin on one slim, gloved hand, her elbow on the desk.
"That's very good of you," she said formally. And then broke direct into her mission. "Have you found out anything, Mr. Foyle?"
"It's rather early to say anything yet," he hedged. "Our inquiries are not completed."
"There is no need for further inquiry. I can tell you who the murderer is."
Superintendent Foyle coughed and idly shifted a piece of paper over the notes on his blotting-pad. His face was inscrutable. She could not tell whether her statement had startled him or not. For all the change in his expression she might have merely remarked that the weather was fine. Had it been any one else he would have said that before the day was out he expected a dozen or more people to tell him that they knew the murderer—and that in each case the selection would be different. As it was he merely said with polite interest—
"Ah, that will save us a great deal of trouble. Who is it?"
"He is—I believe him to be Sir Ralph Fairfield."
The superintendent's eyelids flickered curiously;
otherwise he gave no sign of the quickening of his interest. He was a judge of men, and although Fairfield had rebuffed him he did not believe him to be a murderer. Still, one never knew. Those who kill are not cast in one mould. If Sir Ralph had slain Goldenburg in mistake for Grell, and Lady Eileen knew there must be a motive—for that motive he had to look no further than the beautiful, unsmiling face before him.
"You realise that you are making a very grave accusation, Lady Eileen?" he said. "What reason should there be?"