Wide as his experience had been he could not recall a notable arrest taking place in this way. He had fallen in with Grell's mood for many reasons, but he chuckled to himself as he made the polite suggestion of handcuffs. Grell did not seem to mind. His self-possession was wonderful. Foyle reflected that it might be reaction--the man was possibly glad the tension was over. "By all means, if it will make you easier," he said. Foyle slipped the steel circlets on his wrists, not with the swift click that is sometimes written of, but with deliberate care that they should fit securely, but not too tightly. The juggling feat of snapping a pair of handcuffs instantly on a man is beyond most members of the C.I.D. Grell selected a chair and Foyle, watchful as a cat, sat by him. "May I ask what you intend to do now?" queried the former. "Wait till daylight and then send one of the maids with a message to the nearest police station," replied Foyle. "Would you like a cigar? I can recommend these." He proffered his case and Grell took one. He held it between his fingers with a whimsical smile. "Do you mind cutting it and giving me a light?" he asked. "It's rather awkward with these--er--ornaments." The superintendent did as he was requested and Grell puffed luxuriously. Foyle remained silent. Although he was aching to put questions he dared not. "Do you really think that I killed Harry Goldenburg?" asked Grell suddenly. "I don't know," confessed the superintendent non-committally. "I think you may have." "Yes. That's a pity," said Grell, lifting his cigar to his mouth. "This affair must have cost you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Foyle. And it's all wasted, because, of course, I had nothing to do with it." "I want to know," said Foyle, a bit of American vernacular that came from his lips unconsciously. "Tell me why you never announced that I was alive?" asked Grell. "You'll have to do it, you know." "Well, there's no harm in admitting now that one idea was to make you think that we were deceived, and so to throw you off your guard." "And it did until you got hold of Ivan. Well, you've made a mistake this time, Mr. Foyle. There were finger-prints on the dagger with which Goldenburg was killed, eh?" Foyle inclined his head. His blue eyes were alight with interest which he made no effort to conceal. He half guessed what was coming, but he found Grell's ways disconcerting and could form no certain judgment. Certainly Grell did not behave like a guilty man--that is, a man guilty of murder. But neither did he behave like an innocent man. He was too totally unconcerned with the gravity of his position. "Yes, there were finger-prints," he said. "I have a photograph of them in my pocket if you would like them compared now." "With mine? That's what I was about to suggest. You'll find some writing-paper and ink in the desk behind you. I suppose they will do."