“Did you take any walk into the grounds, except the walk you had from the railway station?” “No.” “You didn’t walk around the house to admire the--er--architecture?” “No, I did not. I was only in the house a few minutes, and then I drove away.” Mr. Parr raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Would it be asking you too much,” he demanded apologetically, “if I requested you to show me the patent shoes you wore that day?” “Certainly,” said Marl, rising with alacrity. He was out of the room a few minutes, and came back with a pair of long pointed patent boots. The detective took them in his hand and looked earnestly at the sole. “Yes,” he said. “Of course, these are not the boots you were wearing, because----” he rubbed the soles gently with his hand, “there is dust on them, and the ground has been wet for the last week.” Marl’s heart nearly stopped beating. “Those are the boots I wore,” he said defiantly. “What you call ‘dust’ is really dried mud.” Parr looked at his dusty fingers and shook his head. “I think there must be some mistake, Mr. Marl,” he said gently. “This is chalk dust.” He put the boots down and rose. “However, it isn’t very important,” he said. He stood so long, looking down at the carpet, that Mr. Marl, in spite of his fear, became impatient. “Is there anything more I can do for you, officer?” he asked. “Yes,” said Parr. “I want you to give me the name and address of your tailor. Perhaps you would write it down for me.” “My tailor?” Mr. Marl glared at the visitor. “What the dickens do you want of my tailor?” And then, with a laugh, “Well, you are a curious man, inspector; but I’ll do it with pleasure.” He went to his secretaire, pulled out a sheet of paper, wrote down a name and address and, blotting it, handed it to the detective. “Thank you, sir.” Parr did not even look at the address, but put the paper into his pocket. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you will realise that everybody who was present at the house within twenty-four hours of Mr. Beardmore’s death must necessarily be interrogated. The Crimson Circle----” “The Crimson Circle!” gasped Mr. Marl, and the detective looked at him straightly. “Didn’t you know that the Crimson Circle were responsible for this murder?” To do him justice, Mr. Felix Marl knew nothing of the kind. He had seen a brief report that James Beardmore had been found shot but the association of the murder with the Crimson Circle had not been disclosed except by the _Monitor_, a newspaper which Mr. Marl never read. He dropped into a chair, quaking. “The Crimson Circle,” he muttered. “Good God--I never thought----” he checked himself. “What didn’t you think?” asked Parr gently. “The Crimson Circle,” murmured the big man again. “I thought it was just a----” he did not complete his sentence. For an hour after the detective’s departure Felix Marl sat huddled up in his chair, his head in his hands. The Crimson Circle!