The provisions which the mystery man had brought the night after he had reached his hiding place were almost exhausted (he had spent twenty-four hours without any food whatever, but in his agitation had not realised the fact until the stranger arrived carrying a basket of foodstuffs). As to his nerves, they were almost gone. A week spent in that hovel without communion with man, with the knowledge that the police were searching for him, and that a long term of imprisonment would automatically follow his capture, had played havoc with his placid features, and to the solitude had been added the terror of a search. He had shrunk in a corner behind a door which opened to the inner room leading to the garret whilst the detective had explored the room. The memory of Derrick Yale’s visit was a nightmare. He settled himself down in the old chair that he had found in the house, to spend yet another night. The man whose warning had sent him flying to cover must come soon, and must bring more food. Brabazon was dozing when he heard the sound of a key put into the lock below and jumped up. He tiptoed carefully to the trap-door and lifted it and then he heard the booming voice of the stranger. “Come down,” it said, and he obeyed. The previous interview had been in the passage where the darkness seemed thicker than anywhere else in the house. He had accustomed himself to the darkness and walked down the rickety stairs without mishap. “Stay where you are,” said the voice. “I have brought you some food and clothing. You will find everything you need. You had better shave yourself and make yourself presentable.” “Where am I going?” asked Brabazon. “I have taken a berth for you on a steamer leaving Victoria Dock to-morrow for New Zealand. You will find your passport papers and ticket in the grip. Now listen. You are to leave your moustache, or what there is of it unshaven, and shave your eyebrows. They are the most conspicuous features of your face.” Brabazon wondered when this man had seen him. Mechanically his hand stole up to his shaggy eyebrows and mentally he agreed with the mysterious visitor. “I have not brought you any money,” the voice went on. “You have sixty thousand which you stole from Marl--you closed his account, forging his name to a cheque, believing that I would settle with him--as I did.” “Who are you?” asked Brabazon. “I am the Crimson Circle,” was the reply. “Why do you ask that question? You have met me before.” “Yes, of course,” Brabazon muttered. “I think this place is driving me mad. When may I leave this house?” “You may leave to-morrow. Wait until nightfall. Your ship leaves on the following morning, but you can get on board to-morrow night.” “But they will be watching the ship,” pleaded Brabazon. “Don’t you think it is too dangerous?” “There is no danger for you,” was the reply. “Give me your money.” “My money?” gasped the banker, turning pale.