“He refused to stay at the house, said he was going back to London,” said Parr. “As a matter of fact, he went no farther than Kingside, which is a station some eight or nine miles away. He sent his bag on to London and came back by road. He was probably the person whom the murderer saw in the wood that night. Now why had he come back if he was so scared that he ran away in the first place? And why did he write that letter for delivery in the night when he had every opportunity to tell James Beardmore by day, when he was with him?” There was a long silence. “How was Marl killed?” asked Yale. The other shook his head. “That is a mystery to me. The murderer could not possibly have entered the room. I had an interview with ‘Flush’ Barnet--as yet he knows nothing about the murder--and he admits he broke in for the purpose of burglary. He says he heard the sound of somebody moving about the house, and very naturally hid himself. He also says he heard a strange hissing sound, like air escaping from a pipe. Another remarkable clue was a round wet patch on the pillow, within a few inches of the dead man’s hand. It was exactly circular. At first I thought it was a symbol of the Crimson Circle, until I discovered another patch on the counterpane. The doctor has not been able to diagnose the cause of death, but the motive is clear. According to his banker--I’ve just been talking to Brabazon on the telephone--he drew a large sum of money from the bank yesterday. In fact, Brabazon closed his account. They had a quarrel over something or other. The safe was of course opened by ‘Flush’ Barnet, but there was no money found on him when he was searched at the police station. Curiously enough, we did discover several little oddments that ‘Flush’ had picked up--now, who took the money?” Derrick Yale paced the floor, his hands behind him, his chin on his breast. “Do you know anything of Brabazon?” he asked. The other did not reply immediately. “Only that he is a banker and does a lot of foreign work.” “Is he solvent?” asked Derrick Yale bluntly, and the inspector raised his dull eyes slowly until they were on a level with the other’s. “No,” he said, “and I don’t mind telling you that we’ve had one or two complaints about his methods.” “Were they good friends--Marl and Brabazon?” “Fairly good,” was the hesitating reply. “The impression I have from reports is that Marl had some hold over Brabazon.” “And Brabazon was insolvent,” mused Derrick Yale. “And this afternoon Marl closes his account. In what circumstances? Did he come to the bank?” Briefly the detective explained what had happened. It seemed that there was precious little that did happen at Brabazon’s bank that he did not know. Derrick Yale was beginning to respect this man, whom at first he had regarded, with a good-natured scorn, as a little stupid. “I wonder if it would be possible for me to go to Marl’s house to-night?”