Brabazon wondered when this man had seen him. Mechanically his hand stole up to his shaggy eyebrows and mentally he agreed with the mysterious visitor.
“I have not brought you any money,” the voice went on. “You have sixty thousand which you stole from Marl—you closed his account, forging his name to a cheque, believing that I would settle with him—as I did.”
“Who are you?” asked Brabazon.
“I am the Crimson Circle,” was the reply. “Why do you ask that question? You have met me before.”
“Yes, of course,” Brabazon muttered. “I think this place is driving me mad. When may I leave this house?”
“You may leave tomorrow. Wait until nightfall. Your ship leaves on the following morning, but you can get on board tomorrow night.”
“But they will be watching the ship,” pleaded Brabazon. “Don’t you think it is too dangerous?”
“There is no danger for you,” was the reply. “Give me your money.”
“My money?” gasped the banker, turning pale.
“Give me your money.” There was an ominous note in the voice that spoke in the darkness, and tremblingly Brabazon obeyed.
Two large packets of money passed into the gloved hand of the visitor, and then:
“Here, take this.”
“This” was a thinner wad of notes, and the sensitive fingers of the banker told him that they were new.
“You can change them when you get abroad,” said the man.
“Couldn’t I leave tonight?” Brabazon’s teeth were chattering now. “This place gives me the horrors.”
The Crimson Circle was evidently thinking, for it was some time before he spoke.
“If you wish,” he said, “but remember you are taking a risk. Now go upstairs.”
The order was sharp and peremptory, and meekly Brabazon obeyed.
He heard the door close, and peering through the dusty windows, he saw the dark shadow stalk along the path and disappear into the darkness. Presently he heard the gate click. The man was gone.
Brabazon groped for the bag which the other had left and, finding it, carried it to the kitchen. Here he could show a light without fear of detection, and he lit one of the scraps of candle he had discovered in his search of the house during the week.
The stranger had not exaggerated when he said that the bag contained all that Brabazon required. But the banker’s first thought was to examine the money which the other had put into his hand. They were notes of all series and all numbers. His own had been in a series, and yet they were new. He looked at them curiously. He knew that new banknotes were not usually issued higgledy-piggledy, and then he guessed the reason. The Crimson Circle had blackmailed somebody and had asked that the notes should not be numbered consecutively. He put the money down and began to change.
It was a very smart Brabazon who stepped cautiously through the gates carrying his bag an hour later, and yet so remarkable was the change which the shaved eyebrows had made, that when, at eleven o’clock that night, he passed one of the many detective officers who were looking for him, he was unrecognised.
He had engaged a room in a small hotel near Euston Station, and went to bed. It was the first night of untroubled sleep he had enjoyed for over a week.
The next day he spent in his room, not caring to trust himself abroad in daylight, but in the evening, after a solitary meal served in his sitting-room, he went out to take the air. He was gaining in confidence, and was now satisfied that he could pass the scrutiny of the ship detective. He chose the less frequented streets and was passing near the Museum when he saw a bill newly pasted on the hoarding, and stopped to read it.
As he read, an idea took shape. Ten thousand pounds and a free pardon! It was by no means sure that he would escape in the morning; more likely was it that he would be detected, and at best what would his life be? The life of a hunted dog, for which even his money would not compensate him. Ten thousand pounds and freedom! And nobody knew about the money that he had tricked from Felix Marl’s estate. He would put that in a safe deposit in the morning, go straight to police headquarters with information which he felt sure must lead to the Crimson Circle’s undoing.
“I’ll do it,” he said aloud.
“I think you’re very wise.”
The voice was at his elbow and he swung round.
A little, stocky man had walked noiselessly behind him in his rubber-soled shoes, and Brabazon recognised him instantly.
“Inspector Parr,” he gasped.
“That’s right,” said the inspector. “Now, Mr. Brabazon, will you come a little walk with me, or are you going to make trouble?”
As they went into the police-station, a woman came out, and the pallid Brabazon failed to recognise his former clerk. He stood in the steel pen whilst the story of his iniquities was told in the cold, official language of the warrant.
“You can save yourself a lot of trouble, Mr. Brabazon,” said Inspector Parr, “by telling me the truth. I know where you are staying—at Bright’s Hotel in the Euston Road. You arrived there late last night and your passage is booked in the name of Thomson to New Zealand by the Itinga, which is due to leave Victoria Dock tomorrow morning.”
“Good God!” said the startled Brabazon. “How did you know that?”
But here Inspector Parr did not inform him.
Brabazon did not intend lying. He told everything he knew. All that had happened from the moment he was called by telephone and told to make a getaway, until he was arrested.
“So you were in the house all the time?” said the inspector thoughtfully. “How did you come to escape Mr. Yale’s search?”
“Oh, was it Yale?” said Brabazon. “I thought it was you. There was an inner room—just a little storehouse, I think it was in the old times—I got behind the door
