The crimson circle
Government must eventually give me amongst those who have served me.
If there are any here who are nervous that we shall be interrupted,
let me assure them that the police patrol does not pass for another
quarter of an hour, and that it is quite impossible for the sound of
my voice to reach outside the church.”
He raised his voice a little, and there was a hard note in it when he
added:
“And to those who may have treachery in their hearts, and imagine that
so widely announced a meeting might bring about my undoing, let me say
that it is impossible that I shall be captured to-night. Ladies and
gentlemen, I will not disguise from you that we are in considerable
danger. Facts which may enable the police to identify me have on two
occasions almost come to light. I have upon my tracks, Derrick Yale,
who I will not deny is a source of considerable anxiety to me, and
Inspector Parr”--he paused--“who is not to be despised. In this
supreme moment I do not hesitate to call upon every one of you for an
extraordinary effort of assistance. To-morrow you will each receive
operation orders prepared in such detail that it will be impossible
for you to misunderstand any particular requirement I have made known.
Remember that you are as much in danger as I,” he said more softly,
“and your reward shall be correspondingly great. Now you will pass out
of the church one by one, at thirty seconds interval, beginning with
the first two on the right, continuing with the first two on the left.
Go!”
At intervals these dark figures glided along the aisle and vanished
through the door to the left of the pulpit.
The man at the chancel rails waited until the church was empty and
then he, too, passed through the door into the lobby and into the
passage.
He locked the outer door and slipped the key into his pocket. The
church clock was booming the half-hour when he called a taxi-cab and
was driven westward.
Thalia Drummond had preceded him by a quarter of an hour, and in the
taxi which carried her to the same end of the town she brought about a
lightning transformation of her appearance. The old black raincoat
which covered her to the throat, the heavy-veiled black hat, were
taken off. Beneath it she wore a cloak of delicate silk tissue,
covering an evening dress which would have satisfied her apparently
exigent master.
She took off her hat and tidied her hair as well as she could, and
when she stepped down at the flashing entrance of Merros Club and
handed a small attaché case to the bowing attendant, she was a
picture of radiant loveliness.
So Jack Beardmore thought. He was supping with some friends much
against his will, for he hated the night side of life, when he saw her
come in, and scowled jealously at her debonair escort.
“Who is he?”
Jack’s companion glanced across lazily.
“I don’t know the lady,” he said, “but the man is Raphael Willings. He
is a big pot in the Government.”
Thalia Drummond had seen the young man before he had seen her, and she
groaned inwardly. Half of what her host said she missed; her mind was
completely absorbed in other directions, and it was not until a
familiar phrase reached her ear that she turned her interest toward
the Minister.
“Antique swords,” she said with a start. “I’m told you have a
wonderful collection, Mr. Willings.”
“Are you interested?” he smiled.
“A little. In fact, quite a lot,” she said awkwardly, and it was not
like Thalia to be at a loss for a reply.
“Could I ask you to come along to tea one day and see them?” said
Raphael. “One doesn’t often find a woman who is interested in such
things. Shall we say to-morrow?”
“Not to-morrow,” said Thalia hastily. “Perhaps the next day.”
He made the appointment then and there, writing it ostensibly on his
cuff.
She saw Jack leave the club without a look in her direction, and she
felt absurdly miserable. She did so want to talk to him and was
praying that he would come over to their table.
Mr. Willings insisted upon driving her home in his car, and she left
him with a sigh of relief. He did not harmonise with her mood that
night.
There was a little forecourt to the flats in which she lived, and she
had dismissed her admirer (he made no secret of this relationship) in
the street outside. She had to walk a dozen paces to reach one of the
two entrances, and even before she had sent her escort away, she was
aware that a man was waiting for her in the darkened court. She stood
on the pavement until Willings’s car had moved on, and then she came
slowly toward the waiting man. He spoke for a minute in a voice that
was a little above a whisper, and she responded in the same tone.
The conversation was of very short duration. Presently the man turned
without sign or word of farewell, and walked quickly away and the girl
entered her flat.
Though the man made no sign, he knew he was being followed. He had
been waiting for ten minutes in the dark of the forecourt and had seen
the stealthy figure in the doorway of a closed shop opposite the
flats. Apparently, however, he was oblivious of the fact that somebody
was walking behind him, somebody who he knew would presently overtake
him and look into his face. He turned into a side thoroughfare where
the street lamps were few and far between, and as he did so he
slackened his pace. Presently the spy overtook him, choosing for the
point of passing, a place within the radius of a lamp. He had bent his
head to peer into the first man’s face when suddenly the quarry turned
and sprang at him. The trailer was taken by surprise; before he could
shout, a grip of iron was around his throat and he was flung
half-senseless to the stone pavement. And then from nowhere in
particular, appeared as by magic three men, who pounced upon the
prostrate tracker and jerked him to his feet.
He glared round, dazed and shaken, and his eyes fell upon the man he
had been set to watch.
“My God!” he gasped. “I know you!”
The other smiled.
“You will never be able to employ your information, my friend,” he
said.
Chapter XXXVII.
“I Will See You--If You Are Alive”
Jack Beardmore went home savage and sick at heart. Thalia Drummond
was an obsession to him, and yet he had every reason to believe the
worst of her. He was a fool, a thrice-condemned fool, he told himself
as he paced the library, his hands thrust into his pockets, his
handsome young face clouded with the gloom of despair. He felt at that
moment he would like to hurt her, punish her as she unconsciously had
punished him. He flung himself down into his chair and sat for an hour
with his head on his hands, covering the old ground which reason had
so often trodden that it had left a worn and familiar track.
He got up sick and weary, and, opening a safe, took out a packet of
documents and flung them on the table. It was the sealed envelope
addressed to his father and unopened which interested him most, and he
had a childish desire to open it if only to spite Thalia.
Why was she so anxious that he should not see the photograph which it
contained? Was she so interested in Marl? He remembered with a scowl
that she had spent the evening with that man on the night he died so
mysteriously. He rose, and gathering the papers together, he carried
them to his bedroom. He was so tired that he had not even the
curiosity to probe into the mystery which attached to the photograph
of an execution. He shivered at the thought of the grisly contents,
and he dropped the package on his dressing-table with a little grimace
and began leisurely to undress.
He quite expected that he would pass a sleepless night; his emotion
and the state of his mind seemed to call for such an end to a
miserable day, but youth, if it has its anguish, has also its natural
reaction. He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
And then he began to dream. To dream of Thalia Drummond; and in his
dream, Thalia was in the power of an ogre whose face was remarkably
like Inspector Parr’s. He dreamt of Marl, a grotesque terrifying
figure, whom he somehow associated with Inspector Parr’s
grandmother--that “mother” of whom he stood in such awe.
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 to-night searching for it.”
She was breathless, on the verge of tears that were not all anger.
“Been here to-night?” 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 waste-paper 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 to-morrow, Mr. Beardmore, if you are alive.”
He would have laughed, but there was something in her drawn face, some