“Did she leave her address? What name did she give?”
“Thalia Drummond,” said the assistant, “of 29, Park Gate.”
Derrick Yale uttered an exclamation.
“Why that’s Froyant’s address, isn’t it?”
Too well Jack knew it was the address of the miserly Harvey Froyant, and he remembered with a sinking of heart that Froyant made a hobby of collecting these eastern antiquities. The inspector gave a receipt for the idol and slipped it into his pocket.
“We’ll go along and see Mr. Froyant,” he said, and Jack interposed desperately:
“For heaven’s sake, don’t let us get this girl into trouble,” he pleaded. “It may have been some sudden temptation—I will make things right, if money can settle the affair.”
Derrick Yale was eyeing the young man with a grave, understanding look.
“You know Miss Drummond?”
Jack nodded. He was too miserable to speak; he felt an absurd desire to run away and hide himself.
“It can’t be done,” said Inspector Parr definitely. He was the conventional police officer now. “I’m going along to Froyant’s to discover whether this article was pledged with his approval.”
“Then you’ll go by yourself,” said Jack wrathfully.
He could not contemplate being a witness of the girl’s humiliation. It was monstrous. It was beastly of Parr, he said to Yale when they were alone.
“The girl would not commit so mean a theft, the stupid, blundering fool! I wish to heaven I had never called his attention to her.”
“It was he who saw her first,” said Yale, and dropped his hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “Jack, you’re a little unstrung, I think. Why are you so interested in Miss Drummond? Of course,” he said suddenly, “you must have seen a lot of her when you were at home. Froyant’s estate joins yours, doesn’t it?”
Jack nodded.
“If he would give as much attention to the running down of the Crimson Circle as he gives to the hounding of that poor girl,” he said bitterly, “my poor father would be alive today.”
Derrick Yale did his best to soothe him. He took him back to his office and tried to bring his thoughts to a more pleasant channel. They had been there a quarter of an hour when the telephone bell rang. It was Parr who spoke.
“Well?” asked Yale.
“I’ve arrested Thalia Drummond, and I am charging her in the morning,” was the laconic message.
Yale put down the receiver gently and turned to the young man.
“She’s arrested?” Jack guessed before he spoke.
Yale nodded.
Jack Beardmore’s face was very white.
“You see, Jack,” said Yale gently, “you have probably been as much deceived as Froyant. The girl is a thief.”
“If she were a thief and murderess,” said Jack doggedly, “I love her.”
VIII
The Charge
Mr. Parr’s interview with Harvey Froyant was a short one. At the sight of the detective, that thin man blanched. He knew him by sight and had met him in connection with the Beardmore tragedy.
“Well, well,” he asked tremulously. “What is wrong? Have these infernal people started a new campaign?”
“Nothing so bad as that, sir,” said Parr. “I came to ask you a few questions. How long have you had Thalia Drummond in your house?”
“She has been my secretary for three months,” said Froyant suspiciously. “Why?”
“What wages do you pay her?” asked Parr.
Mr. Froyant mentioned a sum grossly inadequate, and even he was apologetic for its inefficiency.
“I give her her food, you know, and she has evenings off,” he said, feeling that the starvation wage must be justified.
“Has she been short of money lately?”
Mr. Froyant stared at him.
“Why—yes. She asked me if I could advance her five pounds yesterday,” he said. “She said she had a call upon her purse which she could not meet. Of course, I didn’t advance the money. I do not approve of advancing money for work which is not performed,” said Froyant virtuously. “It tends to pauperise—”
“You have a large number of antiques, I understand, Mr. Froyant, some of them very valuable. Have you missed any lately?”
Froyant jumped to his feet. The very hint that he might have been robbed was sufficient to set his mind in a panic. Without a word he rushed from the room. He was gone three minutes and when he came back his eyes were almost bulging from his head.
“My Buddha!” he gasped. “It is worth a hundred pounds. It was there this morning—”
“Send for Miss Drummond,” said the detective briefly.
Thalia came, a cool, self-possessed girl, who stood by her employer’s desk, her hands clasped behind her, scarcely looking at the detective.
The interview was short, and for Mr. Froyant, painful. Upon the girl it had no apparent effect whatever. And yet she must have known, from the steely glare in Froyant’s eyes, that her theft had been detected. For a little time the man found a difficulty in framing a coherent sentence.
“You—you have stolen something of mine,” he blurted out. His voice was almost a squeak. The accusing hand trembled in the intensity of his emotion. “You—you are a thief!”
“I asked you for the money,” said the girl coolly. “If you hadn’t been such a wicked old skinflint, you’d have let me have it.”
“You—you—” spluttered Froyant, and then with a gasp—“I charge her, inspector. I charge her with theft. You shall go to prison for this. Mark my words, young woman. Wait—wait,” he raised his hand. “I will see if anything else is missing.”
“You can save yourself the trouble,” said the girl, as he was leaving the room. “The Buddha was the only thing I took, and it was an ugly little beast, anyway.”
“Give me your keys,” stormed the enraged man. “To think that I’ve allowed you to open my business letters!”
“I’ve opened one which will not be pleasant for you, Mr. Froyant,” she said quietly, and then he saw what she was holding in her hand.
She passed the envelope across to him, and with staring eyes he saw the Crimson Circle, but the words written within the hoop were blurred and indistinct. He dropped
