All the time they were talking Jack was puzzling his head as to why, in spite of its order, the room gave him an impression of untidiness. But he was not left to his own thoughts for very long, for Mr. Parr was in an unusually communicative mood. He even went so far as to tell Jack some of the unpleasant things said to him by the Commissioner. “Naturally police head-quarters are rather rattled by the continuance of these crimes,” he said. “We haven’t had anything like this for fifty years. In fact, I don’t think since the Ripper murders there has been such an orgy of destruction. It may interest you, too, Mr. Beardmore, to know that the Crimson Circle, whoever he is, is the first real organising criminal we have had to deal with for nearly fifty years. Criminal organisations are loose affairs, and as they depend for their safety upon that sense of honour which every thief is supposed to possess, but which I have never met with, the game doesn’t last very long. The Crimson Circle, however, is a man who obviously trusts nobody. He cannot be betrayed because nobody is in a position to betray him. Even the minor members of the gang cannot betray one another, because it is just as clear to me that they do not know one another by name or by sight.” He went on to discuss interestingly cases in which he had been concerned, and it was nearly half-past eleven when Jack rose with a further apology. “I’ll take you to the front door; your car is here, isn’t it?” “No,” said Jack. “I came by taxi.” “H’m,” said the inspector. “I thought I saw a car drawn up in front of the door. We are not a motor-car owning neighbourhood; probably it is a doctor’s machine.” He opened the door, and, as he had said, a black car was drawn up at the kerb. “I seem to have seen that before,” said the inspector, and took a step forward. As he did so a pencil of flame leapt from the dark interior of the car; there was a deafening report, and Inspector Parr fell into Jack’s arms and slid to the ground. A second later and the car was speeding up the street; it showed no light and vanished round the corner as the doors in the street began to open and to let out the alarmed residents. A policeman came running along the pavement, and together they lifted the detective and carried him into the dining-room. Happily the aunt had gone to bed, and had apparently heard and noticed nothing. Inspector Parr opened his eyes and blinked. “That was a nasty one,” he said with a wince of pain. He felt gingerly in his waistcoat and brought out a flat piece of lead. “I’m glad he didn’t use an automatic,” he said, and then, seeing the blank amazement on Jack’s face, he grinned. “The Crimson Circle gentleman is only one of three who wear a bullet-proof waistcoat,” he said. “I am the second, and--” he paused, “Thalia Drummond is the third, as I happen to know.” He did not speak again for some time, and then he said to Jack: