“How did your interview go on, Parr?”
“Not very well,” said Parr, ruefully. “I think the Commissioner’s got one against me. Have you discovered anything?”
“I’ve discovered your man with the toothache,” was the astonishing reply. “His name is Sibly; he is a seafaring man, and was seen in the vicinity of the house the following day. Yesterday,” he picked up a telegram, “he was arrested for drunken and disorderly conduct, and in his possession was found an automatic pistol, which I should imagine was the weapon with which the crime was committed. You remember that the bullet which was extracted from poor Beardmore, was obviously fired from an automatic.”
Parr gaped at him in amazement.
“How did you find this out?”
And Derrick Yale laughed softly.
“You haven’t a great deal of faith in my deductions,” he said with a glint of humour in his eyes. “But when I felt that cartridge I was as certain that I could see the man as I am certain I can see you. I sent one of my own staff down to make enquiries, with this result.” He picked up the telegram.
Mr. Parr stood, a heavy frown disfiguring what little claim to beauty he might have.
“So they’ve caught him,” he said softly. “Now I wonder if he wrote this?”
He took out a pocketbook, and Derrick Yale saw him extract a scrap of paper which had evidently been burnt, for the edges were black.
Yale took the scrap from his hand.
“Where did you find this?” he asked.
“I raked it out of the ashpan at Beardmore’s place yesterday,” he said.
The writing was in a large scrawling hand, and the scrap ran:
You alone
me alone
Block B
Graft
“ ‘Me alone … you alone,’ ” read Yale. “ ‘Block B … Graft’?”
He shook his head.
“It is Greek to me.”
He balanced the letter upon the palm of his hand and shook his head.
“I can’t even feel an impression,” he said. “Fire destroys the aura.”
Parr carefully put away the scrap into his case and replaced it in his pocket.
“There is another thing I’d like to tell you,” he said. “Somebody was in the wood who wore pointed shoes and smoked cigars. I found the cigar ashes in a little hollow, and his footprint was on the flowerbeds.”
“Near the house?” asked Derrick Yale, startled.
The solid man nodded.
“My own theory is,” he went on, “that somebody wanted to warn Beardmore, wrote this letter and brought it to the house after dark. It must have been received by the old man, because he burnt it. I found the ashes in the place where the servants dump their cinders.”
There was a gentle tap at the door.
“Jack Beardmore,” said Yale under his breath.
Jack Beardmore showed signs of the distressing period through which he had passed. He nodded to Parr and came toward Yale with outstretched hand.
“No news, I suppose?” he asked, and turning to the other: “You were at the house yesterday, Mr. Parr. Did you find anything?”
“Nothing worth speaking about,” said Parr.
“I’ve just been to see Froyant, he is in town,” said Jack. “It wasn’t a very successful visit, for he is in a pitiable state of nerves.”
He did not explain that the unsatisfactory part of his call was that he had not seen Thalia Drummond, and only one of the men guessed the reason of his disappointment.
Derrick Yale told him of the arrest which had been made.
“I don’t want you to build any hopes on this,” he said, “even if he is the man who fired the shot, he is certain to be no more than the agent. We shall probably hear the same story as we heard before, that he was in low water and that the chief of the Crimson Circle induced him to commit the act. We are as far from the real solution as ever we have been.”
They strolled out of the office together, into the clean autumn sunlight.
Jack, who had an engagement with a lawyer who was settling his father’s estate, accompanied the two men, who were on their way to catch a train for the town where the suspected murderer was detained. They were passing through one of the busiest streets when Jack uttered an exclamation. On the opposite side of the road was a big pawnbroker’s, and a girl was coming from the side entrance devoted to the service of those who needed temporary loans.
“Well, I’m blessed!” It was Parr’s unemotional voice. “I haven’t seen her for two years.”
Jack turned on him open-eyed.
“Haven’t seen her for two years,” he said slowly. “Are you referring to that lady?”
Parr nodded.
“I’m referring to Thalia Drummond,” he said calmly, “who is a crook and a companion of crooks!”
VII
The Stolen Idol
Jack heard him and was stunned.
He stood motionless and speechless, as the girl, as though unconscious of the scrutiny, hailed a taxicab and was driven away.
“Now what the dickens was she doing there?” said Parr.
“A crook and a companion of crooks,” repeated Jack mechanically. “Good God! Where are you going?” he asked quickly, as the inspector took a step into the roadway.
“I intend discovering what she has been doing in the pawnbroker’s,” said the stolid Parr.
“She may have gone there because she was short of money. It is no crime to be short of money.”
Jack realised the feebleness of his defence even as he spoke.
Thalia Drummond a thief! It was incredible, impossible! And yet he followed unresistingly the detective as he crossed the road; followed him down the dark passage to the loaning department, and was present in the manager’s room when an assistant brought in the article which the girl had pledged. It was a small golden figure of Buddha.
“I thought it queer,” said the manager, when Parr had made himself known. “She only wanted ten pounds and it is worth a hundred if it’s worth a penny.”
“What explanation did she give?” asked Derrick Yale, who had been a silent listener.
“She said she was short of money and that her father had a number of these curios, but wanted
