"No," said Foyle. "Take it all round, a detective's life is more monotonous than exciting. It's taken me thirty years to collect the experiences I'm telling you about. Things always happen unexpectedly. Some of my narrowest squeaks have taken place in England, in the West End. Why, I was nearly shot in one of the best hotels by an officer sent over from the United States to take charge of a man I had arrested. He was the sheriff of some small town and had a bit of a reputation as a gun-man, and had come over with the district attorney to escort the chap back. They did themselves well while they were here waiting to catch a boat back. One morning I strolled into the hotel, and who should run into me but the attorney with a face the colour of white paper. "'That you, chief?' he gasps. 'For God's sake don't go upstairs. ----'s on the landing, blazing drunk and with his gun out. He's a dead shot.' "Well, I could see that a Wild West sheriff was out of place in a decent hotel, so up I went. He had me covered like a flash, and I yelled out to him not to shoot. "'Hello, chief,' he says. 'That's all right. Come right up. I won't do a thing. Just wait till I've plugged that cur of an attorney and we'll go and have a drink.' "By this time I was up level with him. I daren't risk trying to get the revolver from him, for he was a quick shot, so I pushed my arm through his. "'I haven't got much time, sheriff,' says I. 'Let's go and have a drink first, and you settle up with him afterwards.' "'That's a bet,' he says, and I led him down to the bar. I persuaded him to try a new drink of my own invention--its chief component was soda-water--and followed it up with strong hot coffee. Meanwhile I managed to get the gun away, on the pretext of admiring it. He was reluctant at first, telling me I could have it for keeps after he had finished that cur of an attorney. But I got it, and he was fairly sober by the time I left him. "Then there was a sequel. I had warned the sheriff and the attorney, who had made up their differences, that the man they had got was a slippery customer to handle. However, they got him in the boat all right. When they got to New York I had a cable from the captain--a friend of mine. He said the prisoner had not only cleared off the ship by himself, but had carried away the hand-baggage of his escort." This reminiscence had brought them to Berkeley Square. Fairfield felt his heart thumping quickly although his face was impassive as the door was opened in response to Foyle's ring. She might be out; she might refuse to see them. Neither of the two alternatives happened. Within three minutes Eileen had descended to them in the drawing-room. She stopped, a graceful figure in black, by the doorway, and gave a barely perceptible start as her eyes rested on the baronet. She bowed coldly. "I did not know you were here, Sir Ralph. I understood Mr. Foyle wished to see me."