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 the card and collapsed into a chair. Chapter IX. Thalia in the Police Court The magistrate was a kind-hearted man and seemed uncomfortable. He looked from the unemotional Mr. Parr who stood on the witness-stand, to the girl in the steel pen, and she was almost as cool and as self-controlled as the police witness. Her face was one which would have attracted attention in any circumstances, but in the drab setting of the police court, her beauty was emphasised and enhanced. The magistrate glanced down at the charge-sheet before him. Her age was described as twenty-one, her occupation as secretary. The man of law, who had had many shocks in his lifetime, and had steeled himself to the most unusual and improbable happenings, could only shake his head in despair. “Is anything known against this woman?” he asked, and felt it was absurd even to refer to the slim, girlish prisoner as a “woman.” “She has been under observation for some time, your worship,” was the reply, “but she has not been in the hands of the police before.” The magistrate looked over his glasses at the girl.