“Look here, Miss Drummond,” said that worthy person, “I’ve got a few words to say to you.”
“Say them,” said the girl carelessly.
“I shall want your room after next week.”
Thalia turned slowly.
“Does that mean I’ve got to get out?”
“That’s what it means. I can’t have people like you staying in a respectable house. I’m surprised at you, a young lady as I always thought you were.”
“Continue to think so,” said Thalia coolly. “I’m both young and ladylike.”
But the stout landlady was not to be checked in her well-rehearsed indictment.
“A nice lady you are,” she said, “giving my house a bad name. You’ve been in prison for a week. Perhaps you don’t think I know, but I read the newspapers.”
“I’m sure you do,” said the girl quietly. “That will do, Mrs. Boled. I leave your house next week.”
“And I should like to say—” began the woman.
“Say it on the mat,” said Thalia, and closed the door in the choleric lady’s face.
As it was now growing dark, she lit a kerosene lamp and occupied the evening by manicuring her nails, an operation which was interrupted by the arrival of the nine o’clock post. She heard the rat-tat at the door and the heavy feet of her landlady on the stairs.
“A letter for you,” called the woman.
Thalia unlocked the door and took the envelope from the landlady’s hand.
“You had better tell your friends that you’re going to get a new address,” said the woman, loath to leave her quarrel half-finished.
“I haven’t told my friends yet that I live in such a horrible place,” said Thalia sweetly, and locked the door before the woman could think of a suitable reply.
She smiled as she carried the envelope to the light. It was addressed in printed characters. She turned it over, looking at the postmark before she opened it, and extracted a thick white card. At the first glance of the message her face changed its expression.
The card was a square one, and in the centre was a large crimson circle. Within the circle was written in the same printed characters:
We have need of you. Enter the car which you will find waiting at the corner of Steyne Square at ten o’clock tomorrow night.
She put the card down on the table and stared at it.
The Crimson Circle had need of her!
She had expected the summons, but it had come earlier than she had anticipated.
XI
The Confession
At three minutes to ten the following night, a closed car drove slowly into Steyne Square and came to a halt at the corner of Clarges Street. A few minutes later Thalia Drummond walked into the square from the other end. She wore a long black cloak, and the little hat upon her head was held in its position by a thick veil knotted under her chin.
Without a second’s hesitation she opened the door of the car and stepped in. It was in complete darkness, but she could see the figure of the driver indistinctly. He did not turn his head, nor did he attempt to start the car, although she felt the vibration of the engines beneath her feet.
“You were charged at the Marylebone Police Court yesterday morning with theft,” said the driver without preamble. “Yesterday afternoon you inserted an advertisement, describing yourself as a newly-arrived colonial, your intention being to find another situation, where you could continue your career of petty pilfering.”
“This is very interesting,” said Thalia without a tremor of voice, “but you did not bring me here to give me my past history. When I had your letter I guessed that you thought I would be a very useful assistant. But there is one question I want to ask you.”
“If I wish to reply I shall,” was the uncompromising answer.
“I realise that,” said Thalia, with a faint smile in the darkness. “Suppose I had communicated with the police and I had come here attended by Mr. Parr and the clever Mr. Derrick Yale?”
“You would have been lying on the pavement dead by now,” was the calm announcement. “Miss Drummond, I am going to put easy money in your way and find you a very excellent job. I do not even mind if you indulge in your eccentricity in your spare time, but your principal task will be to serve me. You understand?”
She nodded, and then realising he could not see her, she said:
“Yes.”
“You will be well paid for everything you do; I shall always be on hand to help you—or to punish you if you attempt to betray me,” he added. “Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” she replied.
“Your job will be a very simple one,” went on the unknown driver. “You will present yourself at Brabazon’s Bank tomorrow. Brabazon is in need of a secretary.”
“But will he employ me?” she interrupted. “Must I go in another name?”
“Go in your own name,” said the man impatiently. “Don’t interrupt. I will pay you two hundred pounds for your services. Here is the money.” He thrust two notes over his shoulder and she took them.
Her hand accidentally touched his shoulder, and she felt something hard beneath his fleecy coat.
“A bulletproof waistcoat,” she noted mentally, and then aloud: “What am I to say to Mr. Brabazon about my earlier experience?”
“It will be unnecessary to say anything, or do anything. You will receive your instructions from time to time. That is all,” he added shortly.
A few minutes later Thalia Drummond sat in the corner of the taxicab which was taking her back to Lexington Street. Behind her, at intervals, came another taxicab which slowed when hers did, but never overtook her, not even when she descended at the corner of the street where her lodgings were situated. And when she turned the key of her street door, Inspector Parr was only a dozen paces from her. If she knew that she was being shadowed, she made no sign.
Parr only waited for a few
