The Charge
Mr. Parr’s interview with Harvey Froyant was a short one. At the
sight of the detective, that thin man blanched. He knew him by sight
and had met him in connection with the Beardmore tragedy.
“Well, well,” he asked tremulously. “What is wrong? Have these
infernal people started a new campaign?”
“Nothing so bad as that, sir,” said Parr. “I came to ask you a few
questions. How long have you had Thalia Drummond in your house?”
“She has been my secretary for three months,” said Froyant
suspiciously. “Why?”
“What wages do you pay her?” asked Parr.
Mr. Froyant mentioned a sum grossly inadequate, and even he was
apologetic for its inefficiency.
“I give her her food, you know, and she has evenings off,” he said,
feeling that the starvation wage must be justified.
“Has she been short of money lately?”
Mr. Froyant stared at him.
“Why--yes. She asked me if I could advance her five pounds yesterday,”
he said. “She said she had a call upon her purse which she could not
meet. Of course, I didn’t advance the money. I do not approve of
advancing money for work which is not performed,” said Froyant
virtuously. “It tends to pauperise----”
“You have a large number of antiques, I understand, Mr. Froyant, some
of them very valuable. Have you missed any lately?”
Froyant jumped to his feet. The very hint that he might have been
robbed was sufficient to set his mind in a panic. Without a word he
rushed from the room. He was gone three minutes and when he came back
his eyes were almost bulging from his head.
“My Buddha!” he gasped. “It is worth a hundred pounds. It was there
this morning----”
“Send for Miss Drummond,” said the detective briefly.
Thalia came, a cool, self-possessed girl, who stood by her employer’s
desk, her hands clasped behind her, scarcely looking at the detective.
The interview was short, and for Mr. Froyant, painful. Upon the girl
it had no apparent effect whatever. And yet she must have known, from
the steely glare in Froyant’s eyes, that her theft had been detected.
For a little time the man found a difficulty in framing a coherent
sentence.
“You--you have stolen something of mine,” he blurted out. His voice
was almost a squeak. The accusing hand trembled in the intensity of
his emotion. “You--you are a thief!”
“I asked you for the money,” said the girl coolly. “If you hadn’t been
such a wicked old skinflint, you’d have let me have it.”
“You--you----” spluttered Froyant, and then with a gasp--“I charge
her, inspector. I charge her with theft. You shall go to prison for
this. Mark my words, young woman. Wait--wait,” he raised his hand. “I
will see if anything else is missing.”
“You can save yourself the trouble,” said the girl, as he was leaving
the room. “The Buddha was the only thing I took, and it was an ugly
little beast, anyway.”
“Give me your keys,” stormed the enraged man. “To think that I’ve
allowed you to open my business letters!”
“I’ve opened one which will not be pleasant for you, Mr. Froyant,” she
said quietly, and then he saw what she was holding in her hand.
She passed the envelope across to him, and with staring eyes he saw
the Crimson Circle, but the words written within the hoop were blurred
and indistinct. He dropped the card and collapsed into a chair.