Half a dozen men had rushed into the room at the noise of the struggle, and strove vainly to tear the Russian from his hold. But he hung on with the tenacity of a mastiff. There was a ringing in Foyle's ear and a red blur before his eyes. With a superhuman effort he got his elbow under the Russian's chin and pressed it back sharply. The grip relaxed ever so slightly, but it was enough. Instantly Foyle had wrested himself free, and Ivan was pinioned to the floor by the others. "Handcuffs," said the superintendent sharply. Some one got a pair on the prisoner's wrists, and he was jerked none too gently to his feet. A couple of men still held him. At a word from Foyle the others had gone about their business, with the exception of Norman. The superintendent flicked the dust from his clothes, and picked something, which had fallen during the struggle, from the floor. "You admit you are Ivan, then?" he said quietly. The Russian showed his teeth in a beast-like snarl. "Yes, I am Ivan," he said. "Make what you can of that, but you cannot have me hanged for the murder of Mr. Grell--_and you know why_." "Because Mr. Grell is not dead," retorted the detective smoothly. "Yes, I know that." He counted the rough-and-tumble but little against the fact that the Russian had now admitted that he knew it was not Grell's body that had been found in the study. Here was a starting-point at last. "What I want now," he went on slowly, "is an explanation of how you came to have possession of these." He held up the thing he had picked from the floor. It was a case of blue Morocco leather, and as he opened it a magnificent string of pearls showed startlingly white against a dark background. "These pearls were bought at Streeters' by Mr. Grell as a wedding present to Lady Eileen Meredith," he said. "How do they come in your possession?" "They were given to me by Mr. Grell," cried Ivan. The fierce passion that had made him attack Foyle on the hint of arrest seemed to have melted away. Heldon Foyle's mask of a face showed no sign of the incredulity he felt. He made no comment, but ran his hands swiftly through the Russian's pockets, piling money, keys, watch, and other articles in a little heap on the table. Beyond a single letter there were no documents on the man. He scanned the missive quickly. It was an ordinary commonplace note from a jeweller in Paris, addressed to Ivan Abramovitch. This he placed aside. "May as well have his finger-prints," he said, and one of the officers present pressed Ivan's hands on a piece of inky tin, and then on a piece of paper. The superintendent glanced casually at the impression. "All right," he said. "Take those handcuffs off. You may go, Mr. Abramovitch." The Russian stood motionless, as though not understanding. Foyle wheeled about as though the whole matter had been dismissed from his mind, and caught Norman by the sleeve.