He came out of the room, stood for a moment with the door edge in his hand. “And afterwards I think I shall be able to tell you something about our young friend Drummond,” he said. “Oh, I know you’re not interested, but this little fact will interest you perhaps as much as the story you are going to tell us.” Parr saw him smile, and guessed that Froyant had growled something uncomplimentary about Thalia Drummond. Derrick Yale closed the door softly. “I wonder what his sensation is, Parr,” he mused thoughtfully. “And what the dickens has he to tell your colonel?” They walked into the front drawing-room, which was equally well lighted. “This is unusual, isn’t it, Steere?” said Derrick Yale, who knew the butler. “Yes, sir,” said the stately man. “Mr. Froyant is not as a rule extravagant in the matter of current. But he told me that he’d want all the lights to-night, and that he was not taking any risks, whatever that might mean. I’ve never known him to do such a thing. He’s got two loaded revolvers in his pocket--that is what strikes me as queer. He hates firearms, does Mr. Froyant, as a rule.” “How do you know he has revolvers?” asked Parr sharply. “Because I loaded them for him,” replied the butler. “I used to be in the Yeomanry, and I understand the use of weapons. One of them is mine.” Derrick Yale whistled and looked at the inspector. “It looks as if he not only knows the Crimson Circle, but he expects a visit,” he said. “By the way, have you any men on hand?” Parr nodded. “There are a couple of detectives in the street; I told them to hang around in case they were wanted,” he said. They could not hear Froyant’s voice at the telephone, for the house was solidly built, and the walls were thick. Half an hour passed, and Yale grew impatient. “Will you ask him if he wants us, Steere?” he said, but the butler shook his head. “I can’t interrupt him, sir. Perhaps one of you gentlemen would go in. We never go in unless we are rung for.” Parr was half-way out of the room, and in an instant had flung open the door of Harvey Froyant’s study. The lights were blazing, and he had no doubt of what had happened from the second his eyes fell upon the figure huddled back in his chair. Harvey Froyant was dead. The handle of a knife projected from his left breast, a knife with a steel cup-like guard. On the narrow desk was a blood-stained leather gauntlet. It was the startled cry of Parr that brought Derrick Yale rushing into the room. Parr’s face was as white as death as he stared at the tragic figure in the chair, and neither man spoke a word. Then Parr spoke. “Call my men in,” he said. “Nobody is to leave this house. Tell the butler to assemble the servants in the kitchen and to keep them there.” He took in every detail of the room. Across the big windows which looked on to a square of green at the back of the house, heavy velvet curtains were drawn. He pulled them aside. Behind these were shutters and they were securely fastened.