“Give me your money.” There was an ominous note in the voice that spoke in the darkness, and tremblingly Brabazon obeyed. Two large packets of money passed into the gloved hand of the visitor, and then: “Here, take this.” “This” was a thinner wad of notes, and the sensitive fingers of the banker told him that they were new. “You can change them when you get abroad,” said the man. “Couldn’t I leave to-night?” Brabazon’s teeth were chattering now. “This place gives me the horrors.” The Crimson Circle was evidently thinking, for it was some time before he spoke. “If you wish,” he said, “but remember you are taking a risk. Now go upstairs.” The order was sharp and peremptory, and meekly Brabazon obeyed. He heard the door close, and peering through the dusty windows, he saw the dark shadow stalk along the path and disappear into the darkness. Presently he heard the gate click. The man was gone. Brabazon groped for the bag which the other had left and, finding it, carried it to the kitchen. Here he could show a light without fear of detection, and he lit one of the scraps of candle he had discovered in his search of the house during the week. The stranger had not exaggerated when he said that the bag contained all that Brabazon required. But the banker’s first thought was to examine the money which the other had put into his hand. They were notes of all series and all numbers. His own had been in a series, and yet they were new. He looked at them curiously. He knew that new bank-notes were not usually issued higgledy-piggledy, and then he guessed the reason. The Crimson Circle had blackmailed somebody and had asked that the notes should not be numbered consecutively. He put the money down and began to change. It was a very smart Brabazon who stepped cautiously through the gates carrying his bag an hour later, and yet so remarkable was the change which the shaved eyebrows had made, that when, at eleven o’clock that night, he passed one of the many detective officers who were looking for him, he was unrecognised. He had engaged a room in a small hotel near Euston Station, and went to bed. It was the first night of untroubled sleep he had enjoyed for over a week. The next day he spent in his room, not caring to trust himself abroad in daylight, but in the evening, after a solitary meal served in his sitting-room, he went out to take the air. He was gaining in confidence, and was now satisfied that he could pass the scrutiny of the ship detective. He chose the less frequented streets and was passing near the Museum when he saw a bill newly pasted on the hoarding, and stopped to read it.