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?”