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 les autres_.” She could not help wondering how, in these circumstances, Ralph Willings could preserve so unruffled a mien. “As the tragedy is due to occur in this house some time this afternoon,” he was continuing, “I must ask you to extend your kindness----” There was a tap at the door, and a servant came in to say something in Italian, which the girl did not understand. Raphael nodded. “My car is at the door, if you would honour me, we will have tea at my little place in the country. We shall be there in half-an-hour.” This was a development she had not looked for. “Where is your little place in the country,” she asked. It was, he explained, between Barnet and Hatfield, and expatiated on the loveliness of Hertfordshire. “I prefer to have tea here,” she said, but he shook his head. “Believe me, my dear young lady,” he said earnestly, “the threat of the Crimson Circle distresses me not at all. Onslow Gardens is ‘paradise enow’ with so delightful a guest, but the police have been to see me this afternoon, and have changed all my plans. I told them that I had a friend coming to tea, and they suggested a more public rendezvous. The police, however, quite approve of my alternative scheme. Now, Miss Drummond, you are not going to spoil a very happy afternoon? I owe you a thousand apologies, but I shall be very disappointed if you refuse: I have sent two of my servants down to have everything in readiness, and I hope to be able to show you one of the loveliest little houses within a hundred miles of London.” She nodded. “Very well,” she said, and when he had gone, she strolled through the room examining its fascinating contents with every appearance of interest. He came back wearing his greatcoat, and found her looking at a section of the wall which was covered with beautiful examples of the Eastern swordmaker’s art. “They’re lovely, aren’t they? I’m so sorry I can’t explain the history of them,” he said, and then in a changed tone: “Who has taken the Assyrian dagger?” There was undoubtedly a blank space in the wall where a weapon had hung, and a little label beneath the empty space was sufficient to call attention to its absence. “I was wondering the same thing,” said the girl. Mr. Willings frowned. “Perhaps one of the servants have taken it down,” he suggested. “Though I have given them strict instructions that they are not to be cleaned except under my personal directions.” He hesitated, and then: “I’ll see about that when I come back,” he said, and he ushered her out of the room into the waiting limousine. She could see that the loss of his precious trophy had disturbed him, for some of his animation had departed.