Fairfield, awakened from sleep by the news of the murder of his friend,
had stared stupidly at the detective Foyle had sent to him.
"Grell killed!" he exclaimed, "Why, he was with me last night. It is
incredible--awful. Of course, I'll come at once--though I don't see what
use I can be. What time was he murdered?"
"About ten o'clock. So far as we know you were the last person to see
him alive--except the murderer," said Green. "Believe me, we're sorry to
have to trouble you."
The baronet's face had suddenly gone the colour of white paper. A
sickening dread had suddenly swept over him. His hands trembled as he
adjusted his overcoat. He remembered that he had assured Lady Eileen
that Grell had been with him at the club from six till eleven. What
complexion would that statement bear when it was exposed as a lie--in
the light of the tragedy? His throat worked as he realised that he might
even be suspected of the crime.
The ordinary person suddenly involved in the whirlpool of crime is
always staggered. There is ever the feeling, conscious or unconscious:
"Why out of so many millions of people should this happen to _me_?" So
it was with Sir Ralph Fairfield. He pictured the agony in Eileen
Meredith's eyes when she heard of the death of her lover, pictured her
denunciation of his lie. The truth would only sound lame if he were to
tell it. Who would believe it? Like a man stricken dumb he descended in
the lift with Green, out into the wild night in a taxicab, his thoughts
a chaos.
He was neither a coward nor a fool. He had known close acquaintance with
sudden death before. But that was different. It had not happened so. He
was incapable of connected thought. One thing only he was clear upon--he
must see Eileen, tell her the truth and throw himself on her mercy.
Meanwhile he would answer no questions until he had considered the
matter quietly.
This was his state of mind when he shook hands with Foyle. He had
schooled his voice, and it was in a quiet tone that he spoke.
"It's a horrible thing, this," he said, twirling his hat between his
long, nervous fingers.
Foyle was studying him closely. The movement of the hands was not lost
upon him.
"Yes," he agreed, stroking his chin. "I asked you to come here because
Mr. Grell dined with you last night. Do you know if he left you to keep
an appointment?"
"No--that is, it might have been so. He left me, and I understood he
would be back. He did not return."
"At what time?"
Fairfield hesitated a second before replying. Then, "I haven't the
remotest idea."
The face of Foyle gave no indication of the surprise he felt. He did not
press the question, but slid off to another.
"Do you know of any woman who was likely to visit him at that time of
night?"
"Great heavens, no, man! Do you suspect a woman? He----" He checked
himself, and looked curiously at the detective. "Mr. Grell was a friend
of mine," he went on more quietly. "Things are bad enough as they are,
but you know that he had influential friends both here and in America.
They won't thank you, Mr. Foyle, for trying to go into such things."
Heldon Foyle's eyes lingered in quiet scrutiny on the other's face.
"I shall do what I consider to be my duty," he said, his voice a little
hard. "Come, Sir Ralph, you will see I must do my best to bring the
murderer of this man to justice. Had Mr. Grell any relations?"
"I don't believe there's one in the wide world."
"And you don't remember what time he left? Try, Sir Ralph. It is
important. Before you came I sent a man to the club, and none of the
servants recollects seeing either of you go. They say he was with you
most of the evening. You can clear up this matter of time."
"I don't remember what time he left me."
The baronet's voice was hoarse and strained. Foyle rose and stood
towering over him.
"You are lying," he said deliberately.
Sir Ralph recoiled as though he had been struck in the face. A quick
wave of crimson had mounted to his temples. Instinctively his hands
clenched. Then regaining a little control of himself he wheeled about
without a word. His hand was on the handle of the door when the
superintendent's suave voice brought him to a halt.
"Oh, by the way, Sir Ralph, you might look at this before you go, and
say whether you recognise it."
He held his clenched hand out, and suddenly unclasped it to disclose the
miniature set in diamonds.
Sir Ralph gave a start. "By Jove, it's little Lola of Vienna!" he
exclaimed. Then realised that he had been trapped. "But I shall tell you
nothing about her," he snapped.
"Thank you, Sir Ralph," said the other quietly.
"But this I think it right you should know," went on Fairfield, standing
with one hand still on the handle of the door: "When Grell was with me
last night he showed me a pearl necklace, which he said he had bought as
a wedding present for Lady Eileen Meredith. If you have not found it, it
may give you some motive for the tragedy."
"Ah!" said Foyle unemotionally.