“Not exactly,” he smiled, “but I want a secretary, somebody upon whom I can rely. My work is increasing at a tremendous rate; my correspondence is much more than I can cope with. I will add, that there is little opportunity in my office for the exercise of your pet vice,” he added good-humouredly, “and anyway, I’ll take that risk.” She considered a moment, looking at him steadily. “If you’re willing to take the risk, so am I,” she said at last. “Where is your office?” He gave her the address. “I shall be with you at ten o’clock in the morning. Lock up your cheque-book and clear away your loose change,” she said. “A remarkable girl,” he thought as he was going back to the city. He spoke no more than the truth when he had told Parr that she puzzled him, and yet he had met with every type of criminal, and probably knew more of criminal psychology than did Parr with all his experience. His mind strayed to Parr, that unhappy individual whom he knew was in disgrace. How much longer would police head-quarters tolerate him after this third failure to deal with the Crimson Circle, he wondered. Mr. Parr was thinking on the same lines that night. A brief official memo, had awaited him on his arrival at head-quarters, and he read it with a grimace of pain. And there was worse to follow, he guessed, and he had good reason for that fear. The next morning he was summoned to the house of Mr. Froyant, and found Derrick Yale already there. For all their good relationship, the chase of the Crimson Circle had developed into a duel between these strangely different personalities. It was an open secret in newspaper land that Parr’s impending ruin was due less to the unchecked villainies of the Crimson Circle, than to the superhuman brilliancy of this unofficial rival. To do him justice, Yale did his best to discredit this view, but it was held. Froyant, for all his meanness and his knowledge of Yale’s heavy fees, had commissioned him immediately after he had received the warning. His faith in the police had evaporated, and he made no attempt to disguise his scepticism. “Mr. Froyant has decided to pay,” were the words which greeted the inspector. “Eh, of course I shall pay!” exploded Mr. Froyant. He had aged ten years in the past few days, thought Parr; his face was whiter, and thinner, and he seemed to have shrunk within himself. “If police head-quarters allow this dastardly association to threaten respectable citizens, and cannot even protect their lives, what else is there to be done, but to pay? My friend Pindle has had a similar threat, and he has paid. I cannot stand the strain of this any longer.” He paced up and down the library floor like a man demented. “Mr. Froyant will pay,” said Derrick Yale slowly. “But this time I think the Crimson Circle have been just a little too venturesome.” “What do you mean?” asked Parr.