Local gossip is often of service to the man who knows how to lead it into the right channels. The superintendent decided that an hour or two might be profitably wasted in the lounge, where half-a-dozen men were sitting at a small table before a huge, open fireplace. He ordered a drink and sat a little apart, relying on their provincial curiosity to presently drag him into the conversation. By the time the lunch he had ordered for one o'clock was ready, his habit of handling men had stood him in good stead. "Mr. Frampton of London" had paid for drinks, told half-a-dozen good stories, laughed at a score of bad ones, asked many innocent questions, and deftly given the impression that he was a London business man in search of a few weeks' rest from overstrain. Moreover, he had gained some knowledge of the lay of the country and acquaintances who might be useful. One never knew.

The afternoon saw him tramping through the picturesque countryside, with its drooping hills and wooded valleys. He moved as one careless of time, whose only object was to see the country. Once he stayed to talk with a stone-breaker by the side of the wood; once he led a farmer's restive horse and trap by a traction engine. On both occasions he contrived to drop a good deal of information about himself, and his reasons for being in that part of the country. That it was false was little matter. The best way to stop local gossip is to feed it. A mysterious quiet stranger would be speculated about, the amiable business man from London with a love of chat was quite unlikely to arouse suspicions.

Sooner or later Grell, if he were in the neighbourhood, would learn of the presence of Green and Malley. His attention would be concentrated on what they were doing. Foyle, acting independently, was looking for an opening to attack from the rear. He had a great opinion of Grell's capacity for getting out of awkward situations.

He sauntered through Dalehurst, stopping at a little general store to buy some tobacco and gather more gossip. The village shop invariably focuses village gossip. A garrulous old dame talked at large with the affable stranger, and when the superintendent emerged he was certain that Chief Inspector Green and those acting with him had succeeded in maintaining an adequate discretion in regard to the events of the preceding night.

As Foyle pa.s.sed on, he observed a man hurrying towards him and recognised Malley. Abruptly the superintendent turned his back and, leaning his arms upon a low stone wall, seemed lost in contemplation of a little churchyard. When the divisional inspector had pa.s.sed on, Foyle resumed his walk.

It cost him some little trouble to find the road in which the motor-car had been left derelict. The sodden earth still retained wheel tracks, and it needed but a glance to show that the car had been removed but a few hours before. He walked on till he came to the place where Green had found the strip of brown cloth, which was fairly plain to find, for the footsteps of Green and the other police officers when they followed the trail ceased there as Grell's had done.

Here he drew a small pocket-compa.s.s from his waistcoat pocket, and pressing a spring released the needle. As it came to rest he thrust aside the hazel bushes and plunged in among the undergrowth. Now and again he consulted the compa.s.s as he walked leisurely forward, wet branches brushing his face and whipping at his clothes. For the brief portion of the way a keeper's path facilitated his progress, but at last he was forced to abandon this and return to the wilder portion of the wood. He was making a detour which he hoped would lead him to the back of Dalehurst Grange.

At last he could see a clear s.p.a.ce ahead of him, and in a little, sinking on his knees on a bank, was peering downhill to an old-fashioned, Jacobean manor-house, from whose chimney smoke was lazily wreathing upward. Between him and the house a meadow sloped for a hundred yards, and the back of the house was bounded by an irregular orchard.

"Pity I didn't think to bring a pair of field-gla.s.ses," muttered Foyle, as his eyes swept the place. "I can't tell how those mullioned windows are protected. Well, I may as well make myself comfortable, I suppose."

A little search rewarded him with a great oak tree, and in the fork of a branch twenty feet high he found an easy seat from which he could watch the house without any great risk of being seen himself. Immobile as a statue, he remained till long after dusk had fallen and a steady light appeared at one of the windows. It was, in fact, ten o'clock, and the light had disappeared when he dropped quietly to earth and, with quick footsteps, began to cross the meadow to the orchard.

Under the fruit trees the detective moved slower and held his stick before him, softly tapping the ground as though he were blind. He had not taken half-a-dozen steps before the stick touched something stretched about a foot from the ground. Stooping, he groped in the darkness.

"A cord," he muttered. "Now I wonder if that is merely a precaution against burglars or----" and, stepping over the obstacle, he went on cautiously feeling his way. Twice more he found cords stretched across the gra.s.s, so that an unwary intruder might be tripped up, but his caution enabled him to avoid them.

The walls of the house loomed before him. He stepped to the nearest window and tested it. It was fastened tightly, nor could he see inside.

Foyle had no taste for the haphazard, and would have liked to be certain of the run of the house. But one window was as good as another in the circ.u.mstances. He worked deftly with a glazier's diamond for a while, and at last removing one of the diamond panes of gla.s.s thrust his hand through and undid the latch. The window swung open, and the superintendent sat down on the gra.s.s underneath and swiftly unlaced his boots.

In another two minutes he was inside the house, and pulling an electric torch from the capacious pocket of his Norfolk jacket, he swept a thin wedge of light about the room. It was furnished as a sitting-room, but there was no reason for examining it minutely. Foyle pulled open the door and moved into a thickly carpeted corridor, which made his stockinged feet almost unnecessary.

Door after door he opened and noiselessly examined with the aid of his single beam of light. By the time he had come to a finely carved, old oak staircase, he had a rough idea of the plan of the house as far as the ground floor was concerned. The upper floors demanded more caution, for there the servants might be sleeping.

The first door that Foyle tried after the landing was locked. Pressing his ear to the keyhole, he could hear the deep, regular breathing of some one within. Twice he tried keys without success. At the third attempt the bolt of the lock gave. He pushed the door back and there was a crash as a chair which had been wedged behind it was flung to the floor.

A woman shrieked, and Foyle drew back into the shadow of the landing, cursing his luck. Then there came the sound of rapid footsteps. The superintendent drew himself together, and his muscles grew taut as a man came running. A light blazed up as the man pa.s.sed through the doorway.

Foyle caught one glimpse of a square-faced man fully dressed and acted rapidly. He dashed forward and his hand twined itself round the other's wrist.

"Mr. Robert Grell, I believe," he said suavely.

CHAPTER XLVII

When Heldon Foyle leapt forward, his whole body had been keyed for a struggle. Whatever resources Grell might have in the house the detective stood alone, so far as he knew. It was possible that Green might have arranged to have the place watched, but, on the other hand, it was unlikely that he would do more than have the roads patrolled and the railway station warned. To have watched the Grange so effectively that no one could get away from it would have taken a score or more of men, and even so the position would have made it impossible for them to have remained hidden.

All this Foyle reckoned on. He had hoped to find Grell and to catch him unawares, perhaps asleep. That project had failed, and when the man had replied to the woman's scream, Foyle had deemed the boldest course the safest. Grell had wrenched himself round, the fist of his free hand clenched, but he made no attempt to strike. An elderly woman sat up in bed, surprise and terror in her face. Just behind Foyle stood two maids in their night attire, shivering partly with cold, partly with fright, their eyes wide open.

"That is my name," answered Grell, speaking as quietly as Foyle himself.

"I can guess who you are. If you will wait just a moment while I a.s.sure these women that there is no need for alarm I will come down and talk with you. You had better go to sleep again, Mrs. Ellis. And you girls get back to bed. This is a friend of mine."

The maids retired reluctantly and Foyle linked his arm affectionately in that of Grell. The alarm in the housekeeper's face did not abate.

"But who--who is he?" demanded Mrs. Ellis, extending a quivering finger in the direction of the superintendent.

Grell lifted his shoulders. "Mrs. Ellis is my housekeeper here," he explained to Foyle. "The maids didn't know I was in the place. It's all right, Mrs. Ellis. I'll just have a chat with this gentleman. Don't you worry."

He closed the door as he spoke. Foyle's right hand was resting in his jacket pocket. "I may as well tell you, Mr. Grell," he said, "that I am armed. If you make any attempt at resistance----"

"You will not dare to shoot," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Grell smilingly. "Oh, I know.

We're in England, not in the backwoods. Come downstairs and have a drink. I don't want you to arrest me until we've had a talk. By the way, may I ask your name?"

Despite himself the superintendent laughed. If Grell was a murderer he certainly had coolness. But there might be some trick in the wind. He was keenly on the alert.

"Foyle is my name," he answered--"Superintendent Foyle. I am afraid I shall have to refuse that drink, and as for the talk, I may presently determine to arrest you, so anything you say may be used as evidence. Of course you know that."

"Yes, I know that. No objection to my having a drink, I suppose, even if you won't join me?"

"Sorry to seem ungracious, but even that I can't allow."

"Ah. Afraid of poison, I suppose. Just as you like. Well, here we are.

If you will let go my arm I a.s.sure you I will neither attack you nor try to escape. Then we can sit down comfortably."

They had entered a room whose walls were lined with books and pictures, apparently the library. Foyle shook his head at the other's request. Of course it might be all right, but the man was a suspected murderer. He would accept no man's word in such a case. "I am afraid it is impossible, Mr. Grell," he said gently. "I am anxious not to seem harsh, but you see I am alone with you and my duty.... If, however, you will allow me, I have a pair of handcuffs."

Wide as his experience had been he could not recall a notable arrest taking place in this way. He had fallen in with Grell's mood for many reasons, but he chuckled to himself as he made the polite suggestion of handcuffs. Grell did not seem to mind. His self-possession was wonderful. Foyle reflected that it might be reaction--the man was possibly glad the tension was over.

"By all means, if it will make you easier," he said. Foyle slipped the steel circlets on his wrists, not with the swift click that is sometimes written of, but with deliberate care that they should fit securely, but not too tightly. The juggling feat of snapping a pair of handcuffs instantly on a man is beyond most members of the C.I.D.

Grell selected a chair and Foyle, watchful as a cat, sat by him. "May I ask what you intend to do now?" queried the former.

"Wait till daylight and then send one of the maids with a message to the nearest police station," replied Foyle. "Would you like a cigar? I can recommend these."

He proffered his case and Grell took one. He held it between his fingers with a whimsical smile. "Do you mind cutting it and giving me a light?"

he asked. "It's rather awkward with these--er--ornaments."

The superintendent did as he was requested and Grell puffed luxuriously.

Foyle remained silent. Although he was aching to put questions he dared not. "Do you really think that I killed Harry Goldenburg?" asked Grell suddenly.

"I don't know," confessed the superintendent non-committally. "I think you may have."

"Yes. That's a pity," said Grell, lifting his cigar to his mouth. "This affair must have cost you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Foyle. And it's all wasted, because, of course, I had nothing to do with it."

"I want to know," said Foyle, a bit of American vernacular that came from his lips unconsciously.

"Tell me why you never announced that I was alive?" asked Grell. "You'll have to do it, you know."

"Well, there's no harm in admitting now that one idea was to make you think that we were deceived, and so to throw you off your guard."

"And it did until you got hold of Ivan. Well, you've made a mistake this time, Mr. Foyle. There were finger-prints on the dagger with which Goldenburg was killed, eh?"