The kitchen was a small one and empty. The electric light was burning, which suggested to Miss Macroy that the girl had left the kitchen to answer her knock. Thalia could have smiled at the obvious disappointment on Milly Macroy’s face, but her inclination to amusement departed as Macroy walked to the sink and picked up a bottle. “What is this?” said she, and read the label. It was half-filled with a colourless liquid, and Miss Macroy did not attempt to take out the stopper. The label told her all she wanted to know. “‘Chloroform and Ether,’” she read, looking at the girl. “Why have you been using chloroform?” Only for a second was Thalia taken aback, and then she laughed. “Well, do you know, Milly Macroy,” she drawled, “when I think of poor ‘Flush’ Barnet in Brixton Gaol, I just have to sniff something to put him out of my mind.” Macroy banged down the bottle on the table with a snort. “You’re a bad lot, Thalia Drummond, and one of these days they’ll be waking you at eight o’clock, and ask you if you have any message for your friends.” “And I shall reply,” said Thalia sweetly, “bury me next to ‘Flush’ Barnet, the eminent crook.” Miss Milly Macroy did not think of a suitable retort until she was in the Marylebone Road, and then it came to her with annoying force that, for all her interview, Thalia Drummond had promised nothing. Chapter XXVII. Mr. Parr’s Mother Jack Beardmore had heard of Brabazon’s arrest, and went straight to police head-quarters to see Mr. Parr. He found that excellent gentleman had gone home. “If it is important, Mr. Beardmore,” said the police clerk on duty, “you will find him at home in his house at Stamford Avenue.” Beyond his natural interest in the Crimson Circle and all that pertained thereto, Jack had no particular wish to see the inspector, and Derrick Yale had telephoned all that was known or could be told. “Parr thinks this arrest may have an important development,” he said. “No, I haven’t seen Brabazon, but I accompany Parr to-morrow morning when he visits him.” Yale, too, was apparently un-get-at-able; he had hinted that he had a theatre party that night, and Jack bent his steps homeward. He had sent his car away, for he felt he needed exercise to dissipate his energies, and as he crossed the gloomy park, taking a short cut to his house, he found himself wondering what sort of a home life a man like Parr could have. He had never spoken about his family, and his mode of living outside of the police head-quarters was almost as much of a mystery as that which he was trying to unravel. Where was Stamford Avenue, he wondered. He had reached a deserted spot of the park, when he thought he heard footsteps behind him, and turned his head. He was not a nervous type, and ordinarily the sound of somebody walking in his rear would not have interested him sufficiently to make him turn. The path here skirted a dense thicket of rhododendrons. There was nobody in sight. Jack went on, quickening his pace.