It was a district messenger, and he carried in his hand a square parcel that looked like a boot box.
It was addressed to her in pen-printed characters, and she had a little flutter at her heart as she realised from whom it had come.
Back in her room she cut the string and opened the box. On the top lay a letter which she read. It was from the Crimson Circle, and ran:
You know the way into Froyant’s house. There is an entrance from the garden into the bombproof shelter beneath his study. Gain admission, taking with you the contents of this box. Wait in the underground room until I give you further instructions.
She lifted out the contents of the box. The first article was a large gauntlet glove that reached almost to her elbow. It was a man’s glove, and left-handed. The only other thing in the box was a long, sharp-pointed knife with a cup-like guard. She handled it carefully, feeling the edge; it was as sharp as a razor. For a long time she sat looking at the weapon and the glove, and then she got up and went to the telephone and gave a number. She waited for a long time, until the operator told her there was no answer.
At nine o’clock.
She looked at her watch. It was past eight already, and she had no time to lose. She put the glove and the knife in a big leather handbag, wrapped herself in her cloak, and went out.
Half an hour later, Derrick Yale and Mr. Parr ascended the steps of Froyant’s residence and were admitted by a servant. The first thing Derrick Yale noticed was that the passage was brilliantly illuminated; all the lights in the hall were on, and even the lamps on the landing above were in full blaze, a curious circumstance, remembering Mr. Harvey Froyant’s parsimony. Usually he contented himself with one feeble light in the hall, and any room in the house that was not in use was in darkness.
The library was a room opening from the main hall; the door was wide open, and the visitors saw that the room was as brilliantly lighted as the hall.
Harvey Froyant was sitting at his desk, a smile on his tired face, but for all his weariness there was self-satisfaction in every gesture, every note in his voice.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said almost jovially, “I’m going to give you a little information which I think will startle and amuse you.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands. “I have just called up the Chief Commissioner, Parr,” he said, peering up at the stout detective. “In a case like this one wants to be on the safe side. Anything may happen to you two gentlemen after you leave this house, and we cannot have too many people in our secret. Will you take your overcoats off? I am going to tell you a story which may take some time.”
At that moment the telephone bell trilled, and they stood watching him as he took down the receiver.
“Yes, yes, colonel,” he said. “I have a very important communication to make; may I call you up in a second or two? You will be there? Good.” He replaced the instrument. They saw him frown undecidedly, and then:
“I think I’ll talk to the colonel now, if you don’t mind stepping into another room and closing the door. I don’t want to anticipate the little sensation which I am creating.”
“Certainly,” said Parr, and walked from the room.
Derrick Yale hesitated.
“Is this communication about the Crimson Circle?”
“I will tell you,” said Mr. Froyant. “Just give me five minutes and then you shall have your thrill of sensation.”
Derrick Yale laughed, and Parr, who had reached the hall, smiled in sympathy.
“It takes a lot to thrill me,” said Derrick.
He came out of the room, stood for a moment with the door edge in his hand.
“And afterwards I think I shall be able to tell you something about our young friend Drummond,” he said. “Oh, I know you’re not interested, but this little fact will interest you perhaps as much as the story you are going to tell us.”
Parr saw him smile, and guessed that Froyant had growled something uncomplimentary about Thalia Drummond.
Derrick Yale closed the door softly.
“I wonder what his sensation is, Parr,” he mused thoughtfully. “And what the dickens has he to tell your colonel?”
They walked into the front drawing-room, which was equally well lighted.
“This is unusual, isn’t it, Steere?” said Derrick Yale, who knew the butler.
“Yes, sir,” said the stately man. “Mr. Froyant is not as a rule extravagant in the matter of current. But he told me that he’d want all the lights tonight, and that he was not taking any risks, whatever that might mean. I’ve never known him to do such a thing. He’s got two loaded revolvers in his pocket—that is what strikes me as queer. He hates firearms, does Mr. Froyant, as a rule.”
“How do you know he has revolvers?” asked Parr sharply.
“Because I loaded them for him,” replied the butler. “I used to be in the Yeomanry, and I understand the use of weapons. One of them is mine.”
Derrick Yale whistled and looked at the inspector.
“It looks as if he not only knows the Crimson Circle, but he expects a visit,” he said. “By the way, have you any men on hand?”
Parr nodded.
“There are a couple of detectives in the street; I told them to hang around in case they were wanted,” he said.
They could not hear Froyant’s voice at the telephone, for the house was solidly built, and the walls were thick.
Half an hour passed, and Yale grew impatient.
“Will you ask him if he wants us, Steere?” he said, but the butler shook his head.
“I can’t interrupt him, sir. Perhaps one of you gentlemen would go in. We never go in unless we are rung for.”
Parr was halfway out of
