“Neither have you,” he said. “Twelve months ago you told me of your scheme for trapping the Crimson Circle, and I agreed. We’ve both expected a little too much for your plan, I think. You must try something else. I hate to say it, but there it is.” Parr did not answer for a time, and then to the Commissioner’s surprise, he pulled up a chair to the desk and sat down uninvited. “Colonel,” he said, “I’m going to tell you something,” and he was so earnest, so unlike his usual self, that the Commissioner could only look at him in amazement. “The Crimson Circle gang is easy to get. I can find every one of them, and will find them if you will give me time. But it is the hub of the wheel that I’m after. If I can get the hub the spokes don’t count. But you’ve got to give me a little more authority than I have at present.” “A little more authority?” said the dumbfounded Commissioner. “What the devil do you mean?” “I’ll explain,” said the bovine Mr. Parr, and he explained to such purpose that he left the Commissioner a very silent and a very thoughtful man. After he left head-quarters, Mr. Parr’s first call was at an office in the centre of the city. On the third floor, in a tiny suite, which was distinguished only by the name of the occupant, Mr. Derrick Yale was waiting for him, and a greater contrast between the two men could not be imagined. Yale, the overstrung, nervous, and sensitive dreamer; Parr, solid and beefy, seemingly incapable of an independent thought. “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 pocket-book, 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.