“I can just see somebody asleep,” he said. “Hi! Wake up!” he called, but there was no reply. Hammering on the door did not produce any response. “Go down and see if you can find a hatchet, we’ll break open the door,” said Parr. “I don’t like this.” Hatchet there was none, but they found a hammer. “Can you show a light, Mr. Parr?” asked the man, and the inspector flashed his lamp on the door. It was a white door--white except for the Crimson Circle affixed to a panel as by a rubber stamp. “Break in the door,” said Parr, breathing heavily. For five minutes they smashed at a panel before they finally hammered it through, and the sleeper within gave no sign of consciousness. Parr reached his hand through the door, turned the key and, by dint of stretching, found the bolt at the top. He slipped into the room. The light was still burning and its rays fell across the man on the bed, who lay upon his back, a twisted smile on his face, most obviously dead. Chapter XVII. The Blower of Bubbles It was long after midnight and Derrick Yale was sitting in his pretty little study--he lived in a flat overlooking the park--when the knock came to the door and he rose to admit Inspector Parr. Parr related the incident of the evening. “But why didn’t you tell me?” asked Derrick a little reproachfully, and then laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I always seem to be butting in on your affairs. But how came the murderer to escape? You say you had had the house surrounded for two hours. Did the girl come out?” “Undoubtedly; she came out and drove home.” “And nobody else went in?” “I wouldn’t like to swear that,” said Parr. “Whoever was in the house had probably arrived long before Marl returned from the theatre. I have since discovered that there was a way out through the garage at the back of the house. When I said the house was surrounded that was an exaggeration. There was a way through the back garden which I did not know. I didn’t even suspect there were gardens there. Undoubtedly he went through the garage door.” “Do you suspect the girl at all?” Parr shook his head. “But why were you surrounding Marl’s house at all?” asked Derrick Yale seriously. The answer was as unexpected as it was sensational. “Because Marl has been under police observation ever since he came back to London,” said Parr. “In fact, ever since I discovered that he was the man who wrote the letter, the scrap of which I found and which I compared last week with his writing--I asked him for the address of his tailor.” “Marl?” said the other incredulously. Inspector Parr nodded. “I don’t know what there was between old man Beardmore and Marl, or what brought him to the house. I’ve been trying to reconstruct the scene. You may remember that when Marl came to the house on a visit he was suddenly seized with a panic.” “I remember,” nodded Yale. “Jack Beardmore told me about it. Well?”