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.