“Yes,” decided Mr. Foster, “I think it should be the Foreign Office. Why, who knows what this may lead to? It may be another Serajevo! It may precipitate another European war! Goodness knows what may not happen. We must be very discreet, gentlemen,” said Mr. Foster weightily. “Very discreet indeed. But, of course,” he added thoughtfully, “we should do nothing to interfere with the freedom of the press. Undoubtedly a full story must be got through to _The Courier_ at once. Why not get on the telephone to them at once, Mr. Doyle? Yes,” concluded Mr. Foster handsomely, “urgent though our business with the Foreign Secretary is, I do think we should communicate with the press first of all.” He ceased, because the most determined men must draw breath sometimes. The Inspector eyed Mr. Foster with distaste. Mr. Foster did not appear to realise that he was not the person in charge here. If Foreign Secretaries had to be communicated with, then the police officer in charge was the man to take the decision, not a mere outsider who happened to be invested with a fortuitous importance as a mere corroborative witness. The Inspector felt decidedly that Mr. Foster showed every sign of becoming a thorn in his flesh. And what does one do with thorns in the flesh? Pluck them out, of course. “I must ask you, sir,” said the Inspector, with none of his usual geniality, noting with pleasure that Mr. Foster in his excitement had drained his glass, “I must ask you to go back to your own house now. I have some important questions, of an ’ighly—h’m!—of a highly confidential nature to put to Mr. Nesbitt here, and it won’t be in order for you to be present. I will communicate with you,” said the Inspector with dignity, “when I want you.” Mr. Foster’s face fell with an almost audible thud. He expostulated. The Inspector was firm. He implored. The Inspector was adamant. He argued. The Inspector became peremptory. And then Mr. Foster made a very bad move. He asked point-blank whether Mr. Doyle, a real interloper, was to remain while he himself, of vital importance to the case, was thus summarily dismissed; and he asked it very rudely. Not content with this, in the same breath he accused his antagonist of favouritism and threatened reprisals. He further added his doubts regarding the Inspector’s knowledge of his own job. The breach was complete. The hero of the Garfield case turned to his underling and became very official indeed. With technical efficiency, the remains of Mr. Foster were removed by the underling from the room. “You’re not—you’re not going to arrest him, Inspector, are you?” asked Doyle, when he had recovered from the fit of coughing which had caused him to bury his face in his handkerchief. Guy’s features, it may be remarked, had expressed absolutely nothing at all beyond sympathy with a public servant in the execution of a painful duty.