There was no sign of the Circle on the letter, which began without preamble:
Make the acquaintance of Marl. Discover why he has a hold over Brabazon. Send me the figures of his account and notify me immediately his account is closed. Notify me also if Parr and Derrick Yale come to the bank. Wire Johnson, 23, Mildred Street, City.
She carried out her instructions faithfully, though it was not for a few days that she had an opportunity of seeing Mr. Marl.
Only once did Derrick Yale come into the bank. She had seen him before, when he was a guest of the Beardmores, and even if she had not, she would have recognised him from the portrait of the famous detective which had appeared in the newspapers.
What his business was she did not learn, but, looking out of the corner of her eye from the little office she occupied alone, by virtue of her position as Brabazon’s private secretary, she saw him talking with one of the tellers at the counter, and duly notified the Crimson Circle.
Inspector Parr, however, did not come, nor did she see Jack Beardmore. She did not want to think too much of Jack. He was not a pleasant subject.
In moments of perturbation John Brabazon, the austere and stately president of Seller’s Bank, had a characteristic little trick. His white hands would stray to the hair, curly and thick at the back of his head. One curl he would twist about his forefinger for a moment, and then he would slowly bring the tips of his fingers across his bald dome until they rested on his forehead. In such moments, with his head bowed and his fingers resting on his brow, he had the appearance of being engaged in prayer.
The gentleman who sat with him in his neat office had no characteristics at all. He was a big man, who breathed noisily, and he was puffy with lazy, indulgent living, but he did not fidget and his hands were folded over his large waistcoat.
“My dear Marl,” the banker’s voice was soft and almost caressing, “you try my patience at times. I will say nothing about the strain you put upon my resources.”
The big man chuckled.
“I give you security, Brab—excellent security, old man. You can’t deny that!”
Mr. Brabazon’s white fingers played a tune on the edge of his desk.
“You bring me impossible schemes, and hitherto I have been foolish enough to finance them,” he said. “There must come an end to such folly. You have no need for help. Your balance at this bank alone is nearly a hundred thousand.”
Marl looked round at the door and bent forward.
“I’ll tell you a story,” he mumbled, “a story about a penniless young clerk that married the widow of Seller, of Seller’s Bank. She was old enough to be his mother, and died suddenly—in Switzerland. She fell over a precipice. Don’t I know it? Wasn’t I takin’ photographs of the bee-utiful mountain scenery? Did I ever show you the picture of that accident, Brab? You are in it! Yes, you’re in it, though you told the examining magistrate you were miles and miles away!”
Mr. Brabazon’s eyes were on the desk. Not a muscle of his face moved.
“Besides,” said Mr. Marl in a more normal tone, “you can afford it. You’re making another matrimonial alliance—that’s the expression, ain’t it?”
The banker raised his eyes and frowned at his visitor.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
Mr. Marl was evidently amused. He slapped his knee and choked with laughter.
“What about the person you met in Steyne Square the other night—the one in the closed motorcar, eh? Don’t deny it! I saw you! A nice little car, it was.”
Now, for the first time, Brabazon displayed signs of emotion. His face was grey and drawn and his eyes seemed to have receded further into their sockets.
“I will arrange your loan,” he said.
Mr. Marl’s expression of satisfaction was interrupted by a knock at the door. At Brabazon’s “Come in,” the door opened to admit one whose appearance put all other matters out of the visitor’s head.
The girl brought a paper which she placed before her employer—evidently a pencilled telephone message.
“White—gold—red,” Mr. Marl’s senses registered the impression he received. White, creamy white and delicate skin, red as poppies the scarlet lips, yellow as ripe corn the hair. He saw her in profile, was revolted a little at the firmness of her chin—Mr. Marl liked women who were yielding and soft and malleable in his hands—but the beauty of mouth and nose and brow—they made him blink.
He breathed a little more quickly, a little more loudly, and when she had gone after a colloquy, in a low tone, he sighed.
“What a queen!” he said. “I’ve seen her somewhere before. What is her name?”
“Drummond—Thalia Drummond,” said Mr. Brabazon, eyeing the gross man coldly.
“Thalia Drummond!” repeated Felix slowly. “Isn’t she the girl who used to be with Froyant? Bit sweet on her yourself, eh, Brabazon?”
The man at the writing-table looked at the other steadily.
“I do not make it a practice to be ‘sweet on’ my employees, Mr. Marl,” he said. “Miss Drummond is a very efficient worker. That is all that I require of my staff.”
Marl rose heavily, chuckling.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning about that other business,” he said.
He laughed wheezily, but Mr. Brabazon did not smile.
“At half-past ten tomorrow,” he said, going to the door with the visitor. “Or can you make it eleven?”
“Eleven,” agreed the man.
“Good morning,” said the banker, but did not offer his hand.
Hardly had the door closed on the visitor before Mr. Brabazon locked it and returned to his desk. He took from his pocketbook a plain white card, and dipping his pen in the red ink, drew a small circle. Beneath he wrote the words:
Felix Marl saw our interview
