There were five minutes to spare when he sank into the corner seat of a smoking compartment, and composed himself with a couple of morning papers for the journey. But he read very little. There was much to occupy his mind, and as the train slipped out of Waterloo station he tossed the periodicals aside, crossed his knees, blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and with a little gold pencil made a few notes on a visiting-card. London slipped away, and an aeroplane flying low came into his line of vision as they passed Weybridge. The open pasture meadows gave place to more wooded country, and he placed his pencil back in his pocket as they ran into Deepnook. A solitary porter shuffled forward to take his bag. Foyle handed it over. "Is there a good hotel in this place?" he asked. "There's the Anchor, sir," answered the porter. "It's a rare good place, an' they say as 'ow Lord Nelson stayed there once. They aren't very busy at this time of the year. Only one or two motorists stopping there." "What's good enough for Nelson is good enough for me. Is it far, or can you carry that bag there?" The porter hastened to reassure the gentleman. It was a bare three minutes' walk. Might he ask if the gentleman was staying long? Foyle wasn't sure. It depended on how he liked the country and on the weather. "By the way," he went on, with an air of one faintly curious, "didn't Mr. Grell, who was murdered in London, have some property this way? Dalehurst Grange or something? I suppose you never saw him?" "That I 'ave," asserted the porter, eager to associate himself, however remotely, with the tragedy. "I've seen him time and again. He always used this station when he came down from London--though that wasn't often, worse luck. He was a nice sort of gentleman, though some of the folks down here pretended that 'e was not what you'd call in proper society, because he was an American. But I always found 'im generous and free-'anded. And to think of 'im being done to death! My missus says she's afraid to go to bed afore I go off duty now. It was a great shock to us, that murder." He spoke with a solemn shake of the head, as though he lived in daily dread of assassination himself. "You see the last train through, I suppose?" asked Foyle irrelevantly. "Yes, sir. The ten-nine up. As I was saying, what with these 'ere murders and things----" "Have they shut the Grange up, or is there still some one living there?" "Well, they got rid of most of the servants. I believe there's still a 'ousekeeper there and a maid, as well as a gardener. I remember when Mr. Grell first took over the place, Bill Ellis--'e's the blacksmith--ses to me----" He entered into lengthy reminiscence, to which Foyle only paid casual heed. He had learned what he wanted to know. Grell, if he had left the neighbourhood the preceding night, had not done so from Deepnook, where he would have infallibly been recognised.