Froyant is in terror of his life that he will be marked down. And I don't wonder. He and I have made a few enemies in our time."

    James Beardmore, with his hard, lined face and his stubbly grey beard, might have been mistaken for the grandfather of the good-looking young man who sat opposite to him. The Beardmore fortune had been painfully won. It had materialised from the wreckage of dreams and had its beginnings in the privations, the dangers and the heartaches of a prospector's life. This man whom Death had stalked on the waterless plains of the Kalahari, who had scraped in the mud of the Vale River for illusory diamonds, and thawed out his claim in the Klondyke, had faced too many real dangers to be greatly disturbed by the threat of the Crimson Circle. For the moment his perturbation was based on a more tangible peril, not to himself, but to his son.

    "I've got a whole lot of faith in your good sense, Jack," he said, "so don't be hurt by anything I'm going to say. I've never interfered in your amusements or questioned your judgment—but—do you think that you're being wise just now?"

    Jack understood. "You mean about Miss Drummond, father?"

    The older man nodded.

    "She's Froyant's secretary," began the youth.

    "I know she is Froyant's secretary," said the other, "and she's none the worse for that. But the point is, Jack, do you know anything more about her?"

    The young man rolled his napkin deliberately. His face was red and there was a queer set look about his jaw which secretly amused Jim.

    "I like her. She is a friend of mine. I've never made love to her, if that is what you mean, dad, and I rather think our friendship would be at an end if I did."

    Jim nodded. He had said all that was necessary and now he took up a more bulky envelope and looked at it curiously. Jack saw that it bore French postage stamps and wondered who was the correspondent.

    Tearing open the flap, the old man took out a pad of correspondence, which included yet another envelope heavily sealed. He read the superscription and his nose wrinkled.

    "Ugh!" he said, and put the envelope down unopened. He glanced through the remainder of the correspondence, then looked across at his son.

    "Never trust a man or woman until you know the worst of them," he said. "I've got a man coming to see me to-day who is a respectable member of society. He has a record as black as my hat and yet I'm going to do business with him—I know the worst!"

    Jack laughed. Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their guest.

    "Good morning, Yale—did you sleep well?" asked the old man. "Ring for some more coffee, Jack."

    Derrick Yale's visit had been an unmixed pleasure to Jack Beardmore. He was at the age when romance had its full appeal and the companionship of the most commonplace detective would have brought him a peculiar joy. But the glamour which surrounded Yale was the glamour of the supernatural. This man had unusual and peculiar qualities which made him unique. The delicate aesthetic face, the grave mystery of his eyes, the very gesture of his long, sensitive hands, were part of his uniqueness.

    "I never sleep," he said good-humouredly as he unrolled his serviette. He held the silver napkin ring for a second between his two fingers, and James Beardmore watched him with amusement. As for Jack, his eager admiration was unconcealed.

    "Well?" asked the old man.

    "Who handled this last has had very bad news—some near relation is desperately ill."

    Beardmore nodded.

    "Jane Higgins was the servant who laid the table," he said. "She had a letter this morning saying that her mother was dying."

    Jack gasped.

    "And you felt that in the serviette ring?" he asked in amazement. "How do you get that impression, Mr. Yale?"

    Derrick Yale shook his head.

    "I don't attempt to explain," he said quietly.