"What was her name? What was she like?" interrupted Bolt. Foyle held up his hand warningly to his subordinate.
Wills quivered all over, and words forsook him for a moment. Then he went on—
"I—I don't know. Ivan, Mr. Grell's valet, let her in. I saw her pass through the hall. She was tall and slim, but she wore a heavy veil, so I didn't see her face. I don't know when she left, but I went up to the study at one o'clock to ask if anything was needed before I went to bed. I could get no answer, although I knocked loudly two or three times; so I opened the door. My God! I..."
He flung his hands over his eyes and collapsed in an infantile paroxysm of tears.
Foyle rose and touched him gently on the shoulder. "Yes, then?"
"The room was only dimly lit, sir, and I could see that he was lying on the couch, rather awkwardly, his face turned from me. I thought he might have dozed off, and I went into the room and touched him on the shoulder. My hand came away wet!" His voice rose to a scream. "It was blood—blood everywhere—and he with a knife in his heart."
Foyle leaned over the table. "Where's Ivan?—Russian, I suppose, by the name? He must be about the house somewhere."
"I haven't seen him since he let the lady in," faltered the butler.
The superintendent never answered. Bolt had silently disappeared. For five minutes silence reigned in the little room. Then the door was pushed open violently and Bolt entered like a stone propelled from a catapult.