Was she of the Crimson Circle, he wondered? Parr had hinted as much. Jack set his teeth; he could not, and would not believe even the evidence of his own eyes, and his own common sense. So far from her influence waning, it was gathering strength. She was a being apart, and if she was guilty---- He looked up, and saw Parr’s eyes fixed upon him. “I don’t pretend to be psychometrical,” said the detective slowly, “but I’ve an idea you’re thinking about Thalia Drummond.” “I was,” admitted the young man. “Mr. Parr, do you think she is really as bad as she appears to be?” “Do you mean, do I think that she stole Froyant’s Buddha, because if that’s what you mean, it is not a question of thinking, I am certain.” Jack was silent. He could never hope to convince this stolid man of the girl’s innocence and anyway it was madness, he recognised, to think of her as innocent when she had confessed her fault. “You had better keep quiet in there.” It was Yale’s voice, and Parr grunted a reply. Thereafter they sat in dead silence. They heard him moving about the room, then he too was quiet, for the hour was approaching. Inspector Parr pulled his watch from his pocket, and laid it on the table; the hands pointed to half-past three. It was now that the messenger was due and he sat, his head strained forward, listening, but there was no sound of attack. Presently there was a noise in Yale’s room, a queer bumping noise as though Yale had sat down heavily. Parr jumped to his feet. “What was that?” “It is all right,” said Yale’s voice, “I stumbled over something. Be quiet.” They sat for another five minutes, and then Parr called: “Are you all right, Yale?” There was no answer. “Yale!” he called more loudly. “Do you hear me?” There was no reply and springing to the door he snapped the lock, and rushed into the room, Jack at his heels. What they saw might have paralysed even a more experienced officer than Inspector Parr. Stretched upon the ground, his wrists fastened with handcuffs, his ankles strapped, and a towel over his face lay the prostrate figure of Derrick Yale. The window was open, and there was a strong scent of ether and chloroform. The package of money which had lain upon the table had disappeared. Three seconds later, an aged postman left the hall of the building, carrying his letter-bag on his shoulder, and the police who were watching the house, let him pass without question. Chapter XXIII. The Woman in the Cupboard Parr bent down, and snatched the saturated towel from the detective’s face, and he opened his eyes, and stared around. “What is it?” he asked thickly, but the inspector was busy unscrewing the handcuffs. Presently he threw them clanking to the floor, and lifted the man to his feet, as Jack, with trembling fingers, unbuckled the straps about Yale’s legs. They led him to his chair, and he fell heavily into its depths, passing his hand across his forehead. “What happened?” he asked.