THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume). Charles Norris Williamson

perhaps you'll let me know. Drop into my office when you're by and have a chat and a cigar."

      "I will that, sir," said the man. "Thank you, sir."

      Heldon Foyle was left alone in the room. He sat quite still for a little, but his eyes were busy. At last he rose and aimlessly paced the floor once or twice. In the grate a dull fire was burning, and a few fragments of blackened paper lay on the dying coals. Here and there a word stood out in a mouldy grey against a black background. Foyle did not touch the paper till he had read:—

      "... both ... minent ... sufficient money to ... ade for ... Petrov ... guesse ... fear ... timately exposure must come. If ... open cheque ... ther ... gold, and bring ... God's sake ... desperate."

      Foyle's lips puckered into a whistle as he transferred the words to his pocket-book. He dared not touch the fragments till he had done so, and every moment he feared that some draught might destroy the whole thing. His keen professional instincts were saddened by the impossibility of saving what might be an important piece of evidence. Under favourable circumstances there might have been some chance of retrieving and preserving it by blocking the chimney to prevent a draught and then carefully sticking the burnt fragments with gum on to transparent paper. But that method was impossible. Foyle tried gingerly to rescue the fragments, but a burst of flame frustrated him, and a moment later they were destroyed.

      An ejaculation of annoyance escaped his lips, and he turned to the dainty little desk at another portion of the room. It was locked, but that was a matter of little consequence. Like most detectives, Foyle carried a bunch of keys rather larger than are to be found in the possession of the ordinary man, and the fourth that he tried fitted.

      The neat interior slab of the desk was clear and tidy. One or two letters of no consequence reposed in an inside drawer, and these the superintendent replaced. A footstep outside caused him hurriedly but noiselessly to close the desk and resume his seat, sitting idly with crossed legs. But the interrupter passed, and he returned to the desk. From a recess he drew out a cheque-book and examined the counterfoils of the used cheques with interest. The last counterfoil was blank.

      "Ah!" he muttered, with a jerky little nod of satisfaction, and turned his attention to the blotting-pad. A few minutes' close inspection and he drew the top sheet away and, rolling it up, placed it in the breast-pocket of his overcoat. Again he closed the desk and glanced at his watch. A touch at the bell summoned the footman.

      "I don't think I'll wait, after all," said Foyle. "Time's getting on, and I've several things to attend to."

      "Shall I tell Lady Eileen you called, sir?"

      "Oh yes, certainly. Tell her I'll call back about six this evening."

      In deep thought Heldon Foyle sauntered away from the house, and Maxwell joined him as they turned a corner. The superintendent said nothing till they reached Piccadilly. Then he tore a sheet of note-paper from his pocket-book and handed it to his companion.

      "Cut along up to the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank, Maxwell. A cheque, No. A834,076 for £200, signed Burghley, has been presented this morning. Find out who cashed it and how it was paid. If there were any notes, get their numbers and come straight on to me at the Yard."

      The superintendent swung himself on to a passing motor-bus and selected a seat on top, with his brain still revolving the events of the morning. Once he took out a pencil and drafted a description of Grell's appearance and dress as Roberts had seen him. As a matter of course, he intended that to be telegraphed and telephoned to his men all over London. It was as well not to neglect any precaution.

      He was passing through the little back door which leads to the quarters of the C.I.D. when he came face to face with a young man bearing all the appearance of a clerk who was just passing out. "Hello, Phillips!" he exclaimed. "You've been after Lady Eileen, haven't you? What luck did you have?"

      "I've just reported to Mr. Green, sir," was the answer. "She walked to the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank and took a taxi when she came out. I followed in another cab, but my man punctured a tyre in the Strand and I missed her."

      Foyle frowned and gripped the man's arm. "Come upstairs with me and tell me all about it. What number was her taxi?"

      "County Council LD 6132, police 28,293. Mr. Green has got the name of the driver from the Public Carriage Department, and I was just going out to see if I could get hold of him."

      "Right; you get along, then. And don't forget that if you miss people like that again, accident or no accident, there'll be trouble."

      Green was waiting for his chief. A question elicited the steps he had taken to get hold of the driver of the cab, from whom some account of Lady Eileen's movements might be expected. An all-station message had been flashed out, asking that the cab, wherever it was sighted, should be sent, unless still carrying a passenger, to Scotland Yard. There was little chance of the driver neglecting to obey the summons.

      "It's unlucky that our man failed to keep her in sight," said Foyle. "I'll bet a hundred to one that she's arranged to meet Grell somewhere. However, there's nothing to do now but to wait. Just look here, Green. Here is something I picked out of the lady's fire. Help me and we'll see if we can reconstruct the entire message."

      He laid his pocket-book containing the string of disconnected words on the desk as he spoke. The two bent over them.

      Chapter XLIII

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      There is no person in London easier to find than a cab-driver whose number is known, for the supervision of the Public Carriage Department is exhaustive. Yet, even so, it was some hours before the man Foyle sought was reported as being on his way to Scotland Yard.

      He came at last, wonder and a little alarm in his face as he was brought into the room where the superintendent and Green sat. There are many rules the infringement of which will imperil a licence, and he was not quite sure that he might not have broken one.

      Foyle motioned for the door to be shut. "So you're the cab-driver we're looking for, are you?" he said. "You're William White?"

      "Yes, sir," answered the man. "That's my name."

      "All right, White. There's nothing to be alarmed about. You picked up a lady outside the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank this morning. Just sit down and tell us where you took her."

      "Oh, that is it?" said White, relieved to find that it was merely an inquiry and not an offence that he was called upon to answer for. "Yes, sir. I did pick up a lady there. I took her along to the General Post Office, and waited while she went in. Then——"

      "Wait a minute," interrupted Foyle. "How long was she in there?"

      "Ten minutes as near as a touch, according to the way the taximeter jumped while I was waiting. When she came out she asked me if I could take her to Kingston. I said yes. And she told me to stop on the Surrey side of Putney Bridge, because she expected to pick up a friend, sir. Well, he was waiting there for us——"

      "What kind of a looking man was he?"

      "A tough sort of customer. Dressed like a labouring chap. I thought it was a queer go, but it wasn't none of my business, and ladies take queer fancies at times. She didn't say nothing to him that I could hear, but just leaned out of the window and beckoned. He jumped in and off we went. We stopped at a tailor's shop in Kingston, and the man went in while the lady stayed in the cab."

      "What was the name of the shop?"

      "I didn't notice. I could show it to any one, though, if I went there again."

      "Very well. Go on," said Foyle curtly.

      "Well, in a matter of a couple of minutes out comes the chap again and spoke to the lady. She got out and paid me off. He went back into the shop and she walked away down the street."

      "And that's the last you