“Ugh!” he said, and put the envelope down unopened. He glanced through the remainder of the correspondence, then looked across at his son. “Never trust a man or woman until you know the worst of them,” he said. “I’ve got a man coming to see me to-day who is a respectable member of society. He has a record as black as my hat and yet I’m going to do business with him--I know the worst!” Jack laughed. Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their guest. “Good morning, Yale--did you sleep well?” asked the old man. “Ring for some more coffee, Jack.” Derrick Yale’s visit had been an unmixed pleasure to Jack Beardmore. He was at the age when romance had its full appeal and the companionship of the most commonplace detective would have brought him a peculiar joy. But the glamour which surrounded Yale was the glamour of the supernatural. This man had unusual and peculiar qualities which made him unique. The delicate æsthetic face, the grave mystery of his eyes, the very gesture of his long, sensitive hands, were part of his uniqueness. “I never sleep,” he said good-humouredly as he unrolled his serviette. He held the silver napkin ring for a second between his two fingers, and James Beardmore watched him with amusement. As for Jack, his eager admiration was unconcealed. “Well?” asked the old man. “Who handled this last has had very bad news--some near relation is desperately ill.” Beardmore nodded. “Jane Higgins was the servant who laid the table,” he said. “She had a letter this morning saying that her mother was dying.” Jack gasped. “And you felt that in the serviette ring?” he asked in amazement. “How do you get that impression, Mr. Yale?” Derrick Yale shook his head. “I don’t attempt to explain,” he said quietly. “All that I know is that the moment I took up my serviette I had a sensation of profound and poignant sorrow. It is weird, isn’t it?” “But how did you know about her mother?” “I traced it somehow,” said the other almost brusquely; “it is a matter of deduction. Have you any news, Mr. Beardmore?” For answer Jim handed him the card he had received that morning. Yale read the message, then weighed the card on the palm of his white hand. “Posted by a sailor,” he said, “a man who has been in prison and has recently lost a great deal of money.” Jim Beardmore laughed. “Which I shall certainly not replace,” he said, rising from the table. “Do you take these warnings seriously?” “I take them very seriously,” said Derrick in his quiet way. “So seriously that I do not advise you to leave this house except in my company. The Crimson Circle,” he went on, arresting Beardmore’s indignant protest with a characteristic gesture, “is, I admit, vulgarly melodramatic in its operations, but it will be no solace to your heirs to learn that you have died theatrically.” Jim Beardmore was silent for a time, and his son regarded him anxiously. “Why don’t you go abroad, father?” he asked, and the old man snapped round on him.