What woke him was the reflection of a light from the dressing-table mirror. The light had been extinguished when he sat up in bed, but, half-asleep as he was, he was certain that there had been a flash of some kind—it was hardly the season for lightning.
“Who is there?” he asked, and put out his hand to reach for the lamp. But the lamp was not there; somebody had moved it. Now he saw, and was out of bed in a second.
He heard a movement toward the door and ran. Somebody was in his grip, somebody who squirmed and struggled, and then he released his hold with a gasp. It was a woman—instinct told him that it was Thalia Drummond.
Slowly he put out his hand, groping for the electric switch, and the room was flooded with light.
It was Thalia—Thalia as white as death and trembling. Thalia who held something behind her and met his pained gaze with a tragic attempt at defiance.
“Thalia!” he groaned, and sat down.
Thalia in his room! What had she been doing?
“Why did you come?” he asked shakily, “and what are you concealing?”
“Why did you bring those papers up to your room?” she asked almost fiercely. “If you had left them in your safe—oh, why didn’t you leave them in your safe?”
And now he saw that she held the sealed packet containing the photograph of the execution.
“But—but, Thalia,” he stammered, “I don’t understand you. Why didn’t you tell me—”
“I told you not to look at the picture. I never dreamt you would bring it here. They have been here tonight searching for it.”
She was breathless, on the verge of tears that were not all anger.
“Been here tonight?” he said slowly. “Who have been here?”
“The Crimson Circle. They knew you had that photograph, and they came and burgled your library. I was in the house when they came, and prayed—prayed”—she wrung her hands and he saw the look of anguish on her face. “I prayed that they would find it, and now they will think you have seen the picture. Oh, why did you do it?”
He reached for his dressing-gown, realising that his attire was somewhat scanty, and in the warm folds he felt a little more assurance.
“You are still talking Greek to me,” he said. “The thing I understand perfectly is that my house has been burgled. Will you come with me?”
She followed him down the stairs and into his library. She had spoken the truth. The door of the safe hung drunkenly upon its hinges. A hole had been cut through the shutter and it was open. The contents of the safe lay upon the floor; the drawers of his desk had been forced open and apparently a search had been made amongst the papers on the desk. Even the wastepaper basket had been turned out and searched.
“I can’t understand it,” he muttered. He was pulling the heavy curtains across the window.
“You will understand better, though I hope you do not understand too well,” she said grimly. “Now, please take a sheet of paper and write as I dictate.”
“To whom must I write?” he asked in surprise.
“Inspector Parr,” she said. “Say ‘Dear Inspector.—Here is the photograph which my father received the day before his death. I have not opened it, but perhaps it may interest you.’ ”
Meekly he wrote as she ordered and signed the letter, which, with the photograph, she put into a large envelope.
“And now address it,” she said. “And write on it on the top left-hand corner, ‘From John Beardmore,’ and put after that ‘Photograph, very urgent.’ ”
With the envelope in her hand she walked to the door.
“I shall see you tomorrow, Mr. Beardmore, if you are alive.”
He would have laughed, but there was something in her drawn face, some message in her quivering lips, that checked the laughter on his.
XXXVIII
The Arrest of Thalia
It was the seventh day following the meeting of the Cabinet, and, so far from agreeing with the terms of the Crimson Circle, the Government had made it known, in the most unmistakable terms, that it refused to deal with the Circle or its emissaries.
That afternoon Mr. Raphael Willings prepared for a visitor. His house in Onslow Gardens was one of the show places of the country. His collection of antique armour and swords, his priceless intaglios and his rare prints were without equal in the world. But he had no thought of his visitor’s antiquarian interests when he made his preparations, and he was less deterred than stimulated by a confidential document which had come to him, intimating in plain language the character which Thalia Drummond bore.
Thief she might be—well, she could take any sword in the armoury, any print on the wall, the rarest intaglio among his show cases, so long as she was pleasant and complacent.
When Thalia came she was admitted by a foreign-looking footman and remembered that Raphael Willings had only Italian servants in the house.
Warily she surveyed the room into which she was ushered. There were open windows at each end—which surprised her. She had expected to find a little tête-à-tête tea table. That was missing, and yet in this room was the cream of his collection, as she could see at a glance.
Willings came in a few seconds later, and greeted her warmly.
“Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die; perhaps today,” he said melodramatically. “Have you heard the news?”
She shook her head.
“I am the newest victim of the Crimson Circle,” he said gaily enough. “You probably read the newspapers, and know all about that famous company. Yes,” he went on with a laugh, “of all my colleagues I have the honour to be the first chosen for sacrifice; pour encourager
