“You are on the verge of bankruptcy,” the driver went on. “You have used money which was not yours to use, and you are contemplating suicide. And it is not your insolvency which makes you consider this way out. You have an enemy who has discovered something to your discredit, something which would bring you into the hands of the police. Three days ago you obtained from a firm of manufacturing chemists, a member of which is a friend of yours, a particularly deadly drug, which cannot be obtained from a retail chemist. You have spent a week reading up poisons and their effects, and it is your intention, unless something turns up which will save you from ruin, to end your life either on Saturday or Sunday. I think it will be Sunday.” He heard the man behind him gasp, and laughed softly. “Now, sir,” said the driver, “are you prepared for a consideration to act for me?” “What do you want me to do?” demanded the man behind him shakily. “I ask no more than that you should carry out my instructions. I will take care that you run no risks and that you are well paid. I am prepared at this moment to place in your hands a very large sum of money, which will enable you to meet your more pressing obligations. In return for this I shall want you to put into circulation all the money I send you, to make the necessary exchanges, to cover up the trail of bills and bank-notes, the numbers of which are known to the police; to dispose of bonds, which I cannot dispose of, and generally to act as my agent----” he paused, adding significantly, “and to pay on demand what I ask.” The man behind him did not reply for some time, and then he asked with a hint of petulance: “What is the Crimson Circle?” “You,” was the startling reply. “I?” gasped the man. “You are of the Crimson Circle,” said the other carefully. “You have a hundred comrades, none of whom will ever be known to you, none of whom will ever know you.” “And you?” “I know them all,” said the driver. “You agree?” “I agree,” said the other after a pause. The driver half-turned in his seat and held out his hand. “Take this,” he said. “This” was a large, bulky envelope, and the newly initiated member of the Crimson Circle thrust it into his pocket. “And now get out,” said the driver curtly, and the man obeyed without question. He slammed the door behind him and walked abreast of the driver. He was still curious as to his identity, and for his own salvation it was necessary that he should know the man who drove. “Don’t light your cigar here,” said the driver, “or I shall think that your smoking is really an excuse to strike a match. And remember this, my friend, that the man who knows me, carries his knowledge to hell.” Before the other could reply the car moved on and the man with the envelope stood watching its red tail light until it disappeared from view.