.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46236
   :PG.Title: The Red Widow
   :PG.Released: 2014-07-09
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: William Le Queux
   :DC.Title: The Red Widow
              or, The Death-Dealers of London
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1920
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE RED WIDOW
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      THE RED WIDOW

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      OR

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      THE DEATH-DEALERS OF LONDON

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      BY

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      WILLIAM LE QUEUX

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      CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
      London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
      1920  

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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1. `Concerns a Man in White`_
2. `Who is Mrs. Braybourne?`_
3. `The "Game"—and its Players`_
4. `Progress of the Plot`_
5. `Contains a Note of Alarm`_
6. `The Locked Room In Hammersmith`_
7. `What Happened in Bridge Place`_
8. `On Loch Lomond`_
9. `A Gentleman named Greig`_
10. `More Mysterious Circumstances`_
11. `Spreading the Net`_
12. `The Person from Upstairs`_
13. `Relates a Strange Conversation`_
14. `On Saturday Night`_
15. `Carries the Mystery Farther`_
16. `Baiting the Trap`_
17. `"News" from Lancaster Gate`_
18. `The Coup and its Consequence`_
19. `What Happened to Gerald`_
20. `The Room of Evil`_
21. `Lost Days`_
22. `From out the Past`_
23. `The Cry in the Night`_
24. `Hard Pressed`_
25. `The Recluse`_
26. `"Get Rid of the Girl!"`_
27. `"The Day After To-Morrow"`_
28. `At the Window`_
29. `On Thin Ice`_
30. `Through the Darkness`_

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`Conclusion`_





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.. _`CONCERNS A MAN IN WHITE`:

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   THE RED WIDOW

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   CHAPTER I

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   CONCERNS A MAN IN WHITE

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"I can't understand what it all means.  The whole
thing is a mystery—*a great mystery*!  I have my
suspicions—grave suspicions!" declared the pretty
blue-eyed girl emphatically.

"Of what?" asked the young man strolling at
her side along the sunny towing-path beside the
Thames between Kew and Richmond.

"Well—I hardly know," was her hesitating
response.  "But I don't like auntie to remain in that
house any longer, Gerald.  Some evil lurks there;
I'm sure of it!"

Her companion smiled.

"Are you quite sure you are not mistaken,
Marigold?" he asked in a dubious tone.  "Are you
absolutely certain that you really saw Mr. Boyne on
Thursday night?"

"Why, haven't I already told you exactly what I
saw?" asserted the girl excitedly.  "I've related in
detail all I know.  And I repeat that I don't like
auntie being there any longer."

"Well," said the young man, as they strolled
leisurely along near the water's edge on that Sunday
afternoon in summer, their intention being to take
tea at Richmond, "if what you have described is an
actual fact, then I certainly do think we ought to
watch the man very closely."

"You don't doubt me—do you?" exclaimed the
girl, with quick resentment.

"Not in the least, Marigold," he replied, halting
and looking straight into her clear, almost child-like
eyes.  "Please do not misunderstand me.  But what
you have said is so extraordinary that—well, it seems
all so weird and amazing!"

"That's just it.  The affair is extraordinary, and,
as I've said, I hope auntie will leave the place.  She
has a very good post as housekeeper to Mr. Boyne.
Her affliction is against her, I know, but there is
something in progress at Bridge Place that is too
mysterious for my liking."

"Then let us watch and try to discover what it
really is," said Gerald Durrant determinedly.

"Will you really help me?" she asked eagerly.

"Of course.  Rely upon me.  If I can be of any
assistance to you where your aunt is concerned,
Marigold, I shall only be too delighted.  Surely you
know that!" he added, looking again into her eyes
with an expression of unspoken admiration and
affection.

She murmured her thanks, and the pair—a handsome
pair, indeed, they were—went on along the
gravelled path in a silence that remained unbroken
for some minutes.

Marigold Ramsay was just twenty-one, and an
uncommonly pretty girl, though unconsciously so.
Men turned to glance a second time at her as she
passed.  Though a typical London business girl who
carried her leather dispatch-case on weekdays, she
bore an air of distinction which was unusual in one
of her class.  Her clear, deep blue eyes, her open
countenance, her grace of carriage, her slim
suppleness, and the smallness of her hands and feet, all
combined to create about her an air of well-bred
elegance which was enhanced by a natural grace
and charm.  There was nothing loud about her,
either in her speech or in her dress.  She spoke
softly, and she wore a plain coat and skirt of navy
gaberdine, and a neat little velvet toque which suited
her admirably.  She was, indeed, as beautiful
as she was elegant, and as intelligent as she was
charming.

Many a young man about Lombard Street—where
Marigold was employed in the head office of
a great joint-stock bank—gazed upon her with
admiration as she went to and fro from business, but
with only one of them, the man at her side, had
she ever become on terms of friendship.

Though Gerald Durrant had spoken no word of
love, the pair had almost unconsciously become fast
friends.  He was a tall, good-looking young fellow,
with well-brushed hair and a small moustache
carefully trimmed, in whose rather deep-set eyes was an
expression of kindly good-fellowship.  Erect and
athletic, his clear-cut features were typical of the
honest, clean-minded young Englishman who,
though well-born, was compelled, like Marigold, to
earn his living in the City.

He had served in Flanders through the first year
of war, but, being invalided out, had been since
employed as confidential secretary to the head of a
great firm of importers in Mincing Lane.

As, in his well-cut grey tweeds and straw
hat, he strode beside her in silence in the
sunshine, he reflected.  What she had told him was
utterly amazing.  The whole affair was, indeed, a
mystery.

Marigold had first met Gerald at a little corner
table of a certain small teashop in Fenchurch Street,
where she daily took her frugal luncheon.

One morning as he sat opposite to her he politely
passed the salt.  From that chance meeting they had
each day chatted at the Cedar Tea-Rooms, gradually
becoming friends, until one Saturday, he had invited
her to Hampton Court, and they had spent the afternoon
in the old-world gardens of the Palace so reminiscent
of Henry the Eighth and Cardinal Wolsey.

That day's excursion had frequently been
repeated, for Marigold's great blue eyes attracted the
young man, until one day he cleverly arranged that
she should meet his sister—with whom he lived out
at Ealing—and the outcome was an invitation to tea
on the following Sunday.  Thus the chance-made
acquaintance ripened until they found themselves
looking eagerly forward to lunch time on five days
each week, when they would rush to their meeting-place
to chatter and enjoy the hour's relaxation from
work.  Hence it was not surprising that Gerald had
fallen violently in love with Marigold, though he
had never summoned up sufficient courage to declare
his affection.

"What you've told me is a problem which
certainly requires investigation," he remarked
reflectively after a long silence.  "If your aunt is in any
real danger, then she should, I quite agree, leave the
house.  At present, however, I cannot see that she
is, or why she should know anything.  It is our duty
to watch and to form our own conclusions."

"Ah!" cried the girl gratefully, "it's really
awfully kind of you, Gerald, to promise to help me.
As you know, I have very few men friends, and not
one, save yourself, in whom I would place this
confidence."

"You know me, Marigold," he said, with a smile
of satisfaction.  "You know that I will do all I can
to help you to solve this extraordinary problem."

The problem which the girl had placed before
her admirer was certainly a most puzzling
one—sufficiently puzzling, indeed, to excite the curiosity
of anybody to whom it was presented.

Had Marigold Ramsay but foreseen the terrible
vortex of uncertainty and peril into which their
inquiries would lead them, it is probable that she
would have hesitated ere she embarked upon an
investigation so full of personal risk to both.

In her ignorance of the cunningly-devised
counter-plot, which shielded from exposure and justice
one of the most diabolical and remarkable
conspiracies of modern times, she and her admirer
entered cheerfully upon a policy which led to many
exciting and perilous adventures, some of which I
intend to chronicle in these pages.

That you, my reader, shall clearly understand the
cause of Marigold Ramsay's suspicions, it will be as
well to here unfold certain queer circumstances which
had happened on the previous Thursday night.

Mr. Bernard Boyne, whom Marigold viewed with
such distinct suspicion, was a work-a-day man who
tramped daily the bustling pavements of Hammersmith,
Chiswick, and Bedford Park as an insurance
agent, and was well known and very highly respected.
He lived in a cheaply-furnished, nine-roomed house
in Bridge Place, Hammersmith, a dingy third-class
neighbourhood.  The exterior of the place was, in
summer, rendered somewhat more artistic than its
neighbours in the same row by the dusty Virginia
creeper which covered its walls and hung untrimmed
about its windows.  Upon the railings was fastened
a brass plate, always well polished, which bore the
name "Bernard Boyne—Insurance Agent."

Mr. Boyne had resided in that house for some
six years.  He was well known to all the tradespeople
in the neighbourhood—for he paid his bills weekly—as
well as by the working classes whose policies
he was so frequently effecting, and whose small
premiums he so assiduously collected.

He was agent for several insurance companies of
second-class standing.  He was also in touch with
two well known underwriters at Lloyd's who would
insure his commercial clients against practically
anything—except bankruptcy.

Year in, year out, he was to be seen, always
respectably, and even nattily dressed, passing actively
in and about the neighbourhood, keenly on the alert
for any new clients and any fresh "proposals."

Probably Mr. Boyne was one of the best known
of local personalities.  He was a regular attendant
at the parish church of St. George the Martyr,
Hammersmith, where he acted as sidesman.  Further, he
was honorary secretary to quite a number of charitable
organisations and committees in Hammersmith,
and in consequence had become acquainted with most
of the wealthiest residents.

"Busy" Boyne—for that was what the people of
Hammersmith called him—was a widower, and lived
in that small unpretentious house, a very deaf old
woman named Mrs. Felmore—the aunt of Marigold
Ramsay—looking after him.  For several years she
had performed the domestic duties, and she did them
well, notwithstanding her infirmity.

Now this is what happened.

On Thursday night, on his return after a strenuous
day at about ten o'clock, Boyne had entered his small
sitting-room and taken his bulky notebook and papers
from his pocket.  Then he had thrown off his coat
and sat down to the cold meal which Mrs. Felmore
had prepared for him prior to retiring.  Though the
house was so dingy, yet everything appertaining to
its master's comfort was well ordered, as shown by
the fact that the evening paper was lying neatly
folded, ready for his hand.

Beneath the hissing incandescent gas-jet Bernard
Boyne looked very pale, his eyes deeply set, his brow
furrowed and careworn.  He seemed weary and out-of-sorts.

"Fool!" he grunted aloud to himself.  "I'm
growing nervous!  I suppose it is that big cheque
that I had to-day—seven thousand, eight hundred—the
biggest I've ever had.  I wonder if I ought to
tell Lilla?"

The room was the typical home of a man earning
an income on commission just sufficient to enable him
to "rub along" in comfort.  It was certainly not the
room of a man who was receiving cheques for such
sums as seven thousand, eight hundred pounds.

At first glance Bernard Boyne, as he stood there
in his shirt-sleeves, was an excellent type of the
steady, reliable insurance agent, with no soul above
"proposals" and "premiums."  They constituted his
sole aim in life, now that his "dear wife" was dead.

Nobody suspected the man who so piously passed
round the bag in St. George the Martyr on Sundays
to be a man of mystery.  Nobody, indeed, would
ever have dreamed that the active man in question
would be placing cheques to his account of such
value as seven thousand odd pounds.

"I wonder how long I shall remain here?" he
whispered to himself.  "I wonder what all these good
people would say if they but knew—eh?  *If they
knew*!  But, happily, they don't know!"  He
chuckled to himself.

He was silent for a moment as he crossed to
rearrange the dusty old Venetian blinds.

Then he turned to a half-open cupboard beside
the fireplace, and from it took a small wire cage from
which he released a tame white rat, which instantly
ran up his arm and settled upon his shoulder.

"Poor little Nibby!" he exclaimed, tenderly
stroking its sharp pink snout with his forefinger.
"Have I neglected you?  Poor little fellow!—a
prisoner all day!  But if I let you out when I'm
away some nasty terrier might get you—eh?  Come
let me atone for my neglect."

And he placed his pet upon the table, over which
the rodent ran to investigate the remains of the meal.

Boyne stood watching his pet nibbling at a scrap
of sausage.

"Ah!" he gasped in a whisper.  "If they
knew—but they will never know.  They *can't*!"

A few minutes later his actions were, to say the
least, strange.

He flung himself into the old armchair from
which the flock stuffing protruded from the worn-out
American cloth, and unbuttoning his dusty boots,
took them off.  Then, in his socks, he crept upstairs,
and on the landing listened at the deaf old woman's
door.  Sounds of heavy snoring apparently satisfied him.

Back again he returned to the parlour, and with
a key opened the opposite cupboard beside the
fireplace, from which he took a very long, loose coat
which seemed to be made of white alpaca.  This he
shook out and submitted to close scrutiny.  It was
shaped like a monk's habit, with a leather strap
around the waist—a curious garment, for it had a
hood attached, with two slits in it for the eyes.

After careful examination of the strange garment,
he put it on over his head, drawing down the hood
over his eyes, which gave him a hideous appearance—like
the ghost of an ancient Inquisitor of Spain,
or a member of the mediæval Misericordia Society of
Italy, dressed in white instead of black.

Thus attired, he fumbled beneath in his pocket,
and then noiselessly ascended the two flights of stairs
to an attic door upon which was the circular brass
plate of a Yale lock.  This he opened, and passing
within, closed the door softly behind him.

Bernard Boyne naturally believed himself alone
in the house with old Mrs. Felmore sound
asleep—but, truth to tell, *he was not*!

As he ascended the stairs, Marigold's pale face
peered around the corner.  The shock of seeing such
a hideous ghostly form moving silently upstairs
proved almost too much for her.  But clinging on
to the banisters, she managed to repress the cry of
alarm which rose to her lips, and she stood there
rooted to the spot—full of wonder and bewilderment.
She listened breathlessly, still standing in the dark
passage which led to the kitchen stairs.  Then she
detected the sound of the key going into the lock of
the upstairs room where she knew Mr. Boyne kept
his private papers.

But was it Mr. Boyne?  Or was it an intruder
who had adopted that garb in order to frighten any
person he might encounter?  Besides, why should
Mr. Boyne assume such a strange disguise before
entering the room where his business papers were
stored?

Now upon that summer night Marigold had called
about nine o'clock to visit her aunt, who had in years
past been as a mother to her, to have a snack of
supper, as she often did.  Afterwards she had helped
her aunt to prepare Mr. Boyne's frugal meal.  Then
old Mrs. Felmore, feeling rather unwell, had gone
to bed, leaving her niece in the kitchen to write an
urgent letter to Gerald, which she wanted to post
before midnight.

As she finished the letter, she had heard someone
enter, and not desiring that Mr. Boyne should know
of her presence there at that hour, she had moved
about quietly, and was just about to escape from
the house when she had seen that strangely-garbed
figure ascending the stairs.

The girl's first impulse had been to waken her
aunt and raise an alarm that an intruder had entered
the place.  But on seeing that the supper had been
eaten, and that Mr. Boyne's hat and coat lay upon
the sofa, she at once decided that the figure that had
ascended the stairs to the locked room was actually
that of the master of the house.

"Why is he dressed like that?" she asked herself
in a whisper, as she stood in the front parlour.
"What can it mean?"

She glanced around the room.  The cupboard
beside the fireplace, which stood open, and from
which Boyne had taken his strange disguise, caught
her eye.  She had never before seen that cupboard
open, for her aunt had always told her that Mr. Boyne
kept some of his important insurance papers there.
Therefore, with curiosity, the girl approached it,
finding it practically empty, save for a woman's big
racoon muff, and with it a photograph—that of a
handsome, well-preserved woman of about forty,
across the front of which had been scrawled in a
thin, feminine hand the signature, "Lilla, January,
1919."

Who was Lilla?  She wondered.

Mr. Boyne she knew as a pleasant, easy-going
man, full of generosity so far as his limited means
allowed.  He was a widower, who frequently referred
to his "poor dear wife," and would descant upon her
good qualities and how affectionately they had lived
together for ten years.

The photograph, which she examined beneath the
light, was quite a new one, and dated—hence it could
not be that of the late Mrs. Boyne.

"I'll come back and tell auntie to-morrow," she
said to herself.  "She ought to know—or one night
she'll see him and get a shock like I've had.  And
her heart is not too strong.  Yes—I must warn
her—then no doubt she'll watch."

With those words she dabbed her hair in front
of the cheap mirror over the mantelshelf, and then
treading on tiptoe, went to the front door and let
herself out.

This was the strange story Marigold had related
to Gerald Durrant on that sunny afternoon beside
the Thames—a story which had aroused his curiosity
and held him fascinated.





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.. _`WHO IS MRS. BRAYBOURNE?`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   WHO IS MRS. BRAYBOURNE?

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Bernard Boyne was certainly a mystery man in
Hammersmith, yet nobody suspected it.  In all the
years he had lived in the neighbourhood his actions
had never aroused a single breath of suspicion.

In pious black he passed the collection bag around
to the congregation of St. George the Martyr each
Sunday morning, and afterwards, with a deep bow,
handed the bag to the rubicund vicar of his parish.

Often he had been approached to serve upon the
municipality of the borough, but he had always
declined because of stress of work and for "family"
reasons.  Mr. Boyne could have achieved the highest
local honours, aldermanic and otherwise, had he cared
for them, but notwithstanding his great popularity,
he was ever retiring, and even anxious to efface
himself.

When that night he descended the stairs of his
house in Bridge Place, all unconscious that he had
been observed ascending them, he entered his little
parlour, where he divested himself of the ugly white
overall and locked it away, together with the woman's
muff and the photograph.  Then he paced the room
in indecision, ignorant that Marigold had only
vacated it a few minutes before.

He caught his pet, Nibby, after several attempts,
and having replaced him in his cage, again stood
with knit brows, still apparently uncertain how to
act.  He was in a bad humour, for now and then he
uttered imprecations beneath his breath.  Whatever
had occurred upstairs had no doubt upset him.  A
further imprecation fell from his lips as he cursed his
luck, and then, with sudden resolve, he resumed his
boots, took his felt hat and stick, turned out the gas,
and, going out into the narrow hall, extinguished
the light and left the house.

He was in a bad temper on that warm summer's
night as he strode hurriedly to the Hammersmith
Broadway station, whence he took ticket to Sloane
Square.

"Rotten luck!  Lionel is a fool!" he declared to
himself viciously, as he approached the pigeon-hole
to take his ticket.  "But one can't have all the good
things of life.  One must fail sometimes.  And yet,"
he added, "I can't think why I've failed.  But so
long as it isn't a bad omen, I don't care!  Why
should I?"

And he took his ticket and descended the stairs
to the train.

On arrival at Sloane Square he walked along to
Pont Street to a large, red-brick house, into which he
admitted himself with the latchkey upon his chain,
a key very similar to that of the locked room in
Bridge Place.

In the well-furnished hall he encountered a smart,
good-looking French lady's maid.

"Ah!  Good-evening, Annette.  Is Madame at
home?" he asked.

"Oui, monsieur," the girl promptly replied.
"Madame is upstairs in the boudoir."

Boyne, who was evidently no stranger there, hung
up his hat and passed upstairs to a room on the second
floor, a cosy, tastefully-furnished apartment, where,
at a table upon which stood a reading-lamp with a
green silk shade, a handsome, dark-haired woman in
a pearl-grey evening frock sat writing a letter.

"Hallo, Lilla!  I'm glad you haven't gone to
bed!" he exclaimed.  "I want to have a chat with
you.  I met Annette downstairs.  A pity that infernal
girl hasn't gone to her room.  I don't want her to
overhear anything.  Recollect Céline!"

"I'll send the girl to bed," said the woman,
pressing an electric button.  "Anything wrong?"

"Nothing very seriously wrong," was his reply.

And at his words the woman, who had betrayed
alarm at sight of him, gave a sigh of relief.

Bernard Boyne flung himself into a silk-covered
easy-chair, and, clasping his hands behind his head,
gazed around the luxurious little room.  It was,
indeed, very different to his own surroundings in
drab, work-a-day Hammersmith.  Here taste and
luxury were displayed on every hand; a soft,
old-rose carpet, with hangings and upholstery to
match—a woman's den which had been furnished regardless
of expense by one of the best firms in the West End.
Truth to tell, that elegant West End house was his
own, and the handsome woman, Lilla, though she
passed as Mrs. Braybourne, and was very popular
in quite a good set, was his own wife.

Husband and wife lived apart.  They did so for
a purpose.  Bernard was a hard-working insurance
agent, a strict Churchman, perfectly upright and
honest, though he lived his struggling life in
Hammersmith.  Truly, the *ménage* in Pont Street was both
unusual and curious.  Boyne, known to the servants
as Mr. Braybourne, was very often away for weeks
at a time.  Then suddenly he would return and spend
a week with his wife, being absent, however, all day.
Neither dear old Mrs. Felmore nor all his wide circle
of Hammersmith friends ever dreamed that he kept
up another establishment in one of the best streets in
London, a thoroughfare where a few doors away on
either side were the legations of certain important
European States.

"My dear Lilla, we can't be too careful," he
said, with a kindly smile.  "Our business is a very
ticklish one.  Ena agrees with me that Annette, your
maid, has picked up too much English, and in
consequence is a danger."

"Rubbish, my clear old Bernard!" laughed the
handsome woman, upon whose fingers sparkled
several valuable rings.  "All that we need is to
exercise due discretion."

"I know.  When the game is crooked one has to
be all the more careful."

"You don't seem to be in the sweetest of tempers
to-night," remarked his wife, rather piqued.  His
visit was unexpected, and to her it portended
unpleasantness.  Not because discord ever existed
between them.  On the contrary, they were bound
together by certain secrets which neither one nor the
other dared to disclose.  Lilla Boyne feared her
husband to exactly the same extent that he feared her.

In that house in Pont Street, Mr. Boyne kept his
well-cut suits, his evening clothes, his opera hat, and
his expensive suit-case marked "B.B.," for on entry
there he at once effaced his identity as the humble
insurance agent, and became Bernard Braybourne, a
man of means, and husband of the good-looking
woman who in the course of five or six years had
been taken up by quite a number of well-known people.

"I didn't expect you to-night," she remarked
rather wearily.  "I thought you'd have been here
yesterday."

"I couldn't come.  Sorry!" he replied.

"To-night I went to dine at Lady Betty's.  You
accepted, you know.  So I apologised and said you
had been called suddenly to Leeds last night," she
said.  "That idea of your candidature at Leeds at
the next election works famously.  You have to go
and meet your committee, I tell them, and it always
satisfies the curious.  All of them hope you'll get
in at the by-election when old Sammie dies, as he
must very soon.  They say the doctors have only
given him three months more."

"Then before that date I'll have to retire from
the contest," remarked her husband, with a grin.

"Oh!  I'll watch that for you all right.  Have you
got that cheque?"

"Yes—to-day.  It came from my new solicitor—seven
thousand, eight hundred!"

"Good!  I'm glad they've paid up.  I began to
fear that there might be some little hitch.  They
were so long-winded."

"So did I, to tell you the truth.  But it's all right,
and the new lawyer, a smart young fellow in the City,
suspects nothing.  I've already sent him his fee—so
that's settled him."

"Will you employ him again?"

"I never employ a solicitor a second time, my
dear Lilla.  That would be a fatal mistake," was his
reply.  "But what I came to tell you mainly is that
I've had a failure—a mysterious failure!  Things
haven't turned out exactly as I expected they would."

"Failure!" gasped the woman, with disappointment
upon her dark, handsome face.  "Then we must
postpone it?  How annoying!"

"Yes.  But perhaps it's all for the best, Lilla.
There was an element of danger.  I told you that
from the first."

"Danger!  Rubbish!" declared his wife, with
boldness, the diamonds flashing upon her fingers.
"There's no danger!  Of that I'm quite convinced.
There was much more in that other little affair last
winter.  I was full of apprehension then—though I
never told you of it."

"Well, at any rate, I haven't succeeded in the
little business I've been attempting this last
fortnight, so we'll have to postpone it."

"Perhaps your failure is due to the presence of
your deaf old lady in the house," laughed his wife.
"I passed the place in the car about a fortnight ago.
Ugh!  What a house!" and she shuddered.

"Yes, you might say so if you lived there and
ate Mrs. Felmore's cold sausage for your supper, as
I have to-night.  Yet it must be done.  If one makes
money one has to make some sacrifice, especially
if the money is made—well, not exactly on the square,
shall we say?"  And he grinned.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Away in North Wales three days later.

A beautiful moonlit evening by the Irish Sea.
Over the Great Orme the moon shone brilliantly
across the calm waters lazily lapping the bay of
Llandudno, which was filled at the moment with an
overflowing crowd of holiday folk, mostly from
Yorkshire and Lancashire.

All the hotels and boarding houses were crowded
out, and there were stories of belated trippers, many
of whom were on their first seaside holiday after the
stress of war, being compelled to sleep in bathing
machines.

The lamps along the promenade were all aglow,
the pier blazed with light, and across the bay came
the strains of the orchestra playing selections from
the latest revue.

In the big lounge of the Beach Hotel, which faces
the sea in the centre of the bay, sat a well-preserved,
middle-aged woman in a striking black dinner gown,
trimmed with jade-coloured ninon, and wearing a
beautiful jade bangle and ear-rings to match.  The
visitor, whose hair was remarkable because of its
bright chestnut hue—almost red, indeed—had been
there for three weeks.  She was a widow, a
Mrs. Augusta Morrison, hailing from Carsphairn, in
Kirkcudbrightshire, Scotland, whose late husband
had great interests in a big shipbuilding works at
Govan.

Of rather loud type, as befitted the widow of a
Scotch shipbuilder who had commenced life in the
shipyard, she dressed extravagantly, greatly to the
envy of the bejewelled wives of a few Lancashire war
millionaires, who, unable to gain admittance to that
little piece of paradise, the Oakwood Park Hotel,
beyond Conway, were compelled to mix with the
holiday crowd on the seashore of Llandudno.

The hotel lounge was at the moment almost empty,
for most of the visitors were either on the pier or
had gone out for a stroll in the moonlight.  But
Mrs. Morrison sat near the door chatting with Charles
Emery, a young Manchester solicitor who had only
been married since he had been demobilised six
months before, and who had come to Llandudno with
his wife, as is the custom of young married folk of
Lancashire.

Once or twice the rich widow—who had hired a
car for her stay in North Wales—had invited Emery
and his wife to go for runs with her to Bangor, and
across the Menai Bridge to Holyhead, or to Carnarvon,
Bettws-y-coed, St. Asaph, and other places.
From time to time she had told them of her loneliness
in her big country house in one of the wildest districts
in Scotland, and her intention to go abroad that
winter—probably to Italy.

"My wife has gone to the theatre with Mr. and
Mrs. Challoner," Emery was saying, as he lazily
smoked his cigarette.  "I had some letters to
write—business letters that came from the office this
morning—so I stayed in."

"Have you finished them?" asked the handsome
widow, whose hair was always so remarked, and her
eyes large and luminous.

"Yes," he replied.  "I suppose I shall soon have
to be back in harness again in Deansgate.  But we
shall both cherish the fondest memories of your great
kindness to us, Mrs. Morrison."

"It's really nothing, I assure you," laughed the
widow merrily.  "You have taken compassion upon
me in my horribly lonely life, and I much appreciate
it.  Ah!" she sighed.  "You can never imagine how
lonely a woman can be who goes about the world
aimlessly, as I go about.  I travel here and there,
sometimes on trips abroad, by sea, or by rail, often
to the south of Europe, but I make no friends.
Possibly it is my own fault.  I may be too exclusive.
And yet I never wish to be."

"I really don't think that!" he said gallantly.
"At any rate, you've given us both a real ripping
time!"

"I'm so glad you've enjoyed the little runs.  But
not more, I'm sure, than I have myself.  I cannot
live without movement.  I love crowds.  That's why
I love cities—Manchester, London, Paris, and Rome.
Where I live, up in Kirkcudbrightshire, it is one of
the wildest and least explored districts of Great
Britain.  Between Loch Ken and Loch Doon, over
the Cairnsmuir, the people are the most rural in all
our island, quiet, honest folk, with no soul above their
sheep and their cows.  You and your wife must come
north one day to Carsphairn and stay with me."

"I'm sure we should both be only too delighted
to accept your hospitality, Mrs. Morrison," he said.
"I'm afraid we can never repay you for your kindness
to us.  We are leaving next Monday."

"Oh, you have four more days!  I'm motoring to
Bettws-y-coed again to-morrow.  You must both
come with me, and we'll lunch at the Waterloo, as
we did before.  There has been rain these last few
days, and the Swallow Falls will no doubt be
grand."

And so it was arranged.

Next day all three went in the car up the beautiful
valley of the Conway, with the wild hills on either
side, through Eglwys Bach and Llanrwst, past
Gwydyr Castle, and on by the Falcon Rock to that
gem of North Wales, Bettws-y-coed.

To Mrs. Emery the widow was exceedingly
amiable, and the day passed most pleasantly.

As they were motoring back through the mountains,
purple in the sunset, between Capel Curig and
Bangor, the widow, turning to Emery, suddenly said:

"I wonder, Mr. Emery, if you would advise me
upon a little point of business?  I'm rather
perturbed, and I would so much like your professional
advice.  Can I see you after dinner to-night?"

"Most certainly," was his reply.  "Any advice I
can give you I will do so to the best of my ability,"
said the sharp young lawyer, well pleased at the
prospect of a wealthy client.

That night at dinner Mrs. Morrison, radiant and
handsome, wore a striking gown of black-and-gold,
with a gold band in her red hair, and her string of
fine pearls.  In the big white-and-gold dining-room
she was the most remarked of all the women there,
but she pretended to take no notice of the sensation
caused by her entrance into the room.  Yet that gown
had cost her sixty guineas in Dover Street, and, in
secret, she was amused at the excitement its
appearance had caused among the moneyed folk of
Lancashire-by-the-Sea, who, after all, be it said, are
honest people and who are more thorough than the
shallow "Society" of post-war London.

After dinner, while Mrs. Emery went into the
lounge and joined a woman and her daughter whom
she knew, her husband went to Mrs. Morrison's
sitting-room, where he found coffee awaiting him.

She produced a big silver box of cigarettes, and
when she had served him with coffee and liqueur she
lit a cigarette and settled herself to talk.

"The fact, Mr. Emery, is this," the woman with
the wonderful hair commenced, when he had seated
himself.  "My late husband was a shipbuilder at
Govan.  Only recently I discovered that some twenty
years ago he was guilty of some sharp practice in a
financial deal which, while he and his friends enriched
themselves, a man named Braybourne and his wife
were both ruined.  Braybourne died recently, but his
widow is living in London.  Now knowledge of this
affair has greatly upset me, for I had the greatest
faith in my dear husband's honesty."

"Naturally," remarked the young lawyer.  "The
knowledge of such a stigma attaching to his name
must grieve you."

"Exactly.  And I want somehow to make reparation.
Not while I am alive—but after my death,"
she said.  "I have been wondering what course would
be best to pursue.  I don't know Mrs. Braybourne,
and probably she is in ignorance of my existence.
Yet I should much like to do something in order
to relieve my conscience.  What would you advise?"

The young solicitor was silent for a few moments.
At last he replied:

"Well, there are several courses open.  You could
make her an anonymous gift.  But that would be
difficult, for with a little inquiry she could discover
the source of the payment."

"Ah!  I don't want her to know anything!"

"I quite agree with that.  You could, of course,
make a will in her favour—leave her a legacy."

Mrs. Morrison remained silent for a while.

"Yes," she said at last, "that would be a way of
easing my conscience regarding my husband's
offence."

"Or, another way, you could insure your life in
her favour.  Then, at your death, she would receive
the money unexpectedly," he suggested.

"That's rather a brilliant suggestion, Mr. Emery!"
she replied eagerly.  "But I know nothing
about insurance matters.  How can I do it?  What
have I to do and where shall I go to insure?"

"Well, Mrs. Morrison, I happen to be agent for
a first-class life assurance company, the Universal,
whose head offices are in Cornhill, London.  If you
so desire, I would be very happy to place a proposal
before them," he said enthusiastically, for it meant
a very substantial commission.

"I shall be very glad indeed, Mr. Emery, if you
can carry the business through for me."

"With the utmost pleasure," was the young man's
reply.  "Er—what amount do you propose?"

"Oh!  I hardly know.  Some really substantial
sum, I think.  My husband, I have learned, got
some twenty thousand pounds out of Mr. Braybourne.
At least I would like to give her back half that sum."

"Ten thousand!  How extremely generous of
you, Mrs. Morrison.  Of course, it's a large sum,
and will mean a special premium, but no doubt the
company will, providing you pass the medical test,
issue the policy."

She thanked him for his promise to take up the
matter for her.  Then he went down to the writing-room
to pen a letter to the Universal Assurance Company,
while the handsome red-haired widow passed
along the lounge and, with her merry chatter,
rejoined his wife.





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.. _`THE "GAME"—AND ITS PLAYERS`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   THE "GAME"—AND ITS PLAYERS

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On the following morning Mr. Emery, the young
solicitor, entered Mrs. Morrison's sitting-room at
Llandudno with a telegram in his hand.

"I've just had this from the manager of the
Universal.  They are prepared to do the business and
are writing me full particulars.  I shall get them
by to-morrow morning's post.  I've wired to my clerk,
Wilson, to post me a proposal form and some other
papers."

Emery, his one thought being the big commission
upon the business, entered Mrs. Morrison's room
twenty-four hours later with a number of papers in
his hand.

He sat down with the rich widow, and put before
her the proposal form—a paper which had printed
upon it a long list of questions, mostly inquisitorial.
The bed-rock question of that document was "Who
are you, and are you subject to any of the ills that
human flesh is heir to?"

Question after question she read, and her answers
he wrote down in the space reserved for them.  Once
or twice she hesitated before replying, but he put
down her hesitation to a natural reserve.

The filling up of the form took some time, after
which she appended her signature in a bold hand,
and this completed the proposal.

"I fear it will be necessary for you to go to
London to pass the doctor," he said.  "When would
that be convenient?"

"Any time after next Wednesday," she replied.
"As a matter of fact, I have some shopping to do in
town before I return to Scotland, so I can kill two
birds with one stone."

"Excellent!  They will, of course, make it as easy
for you as possible.  You will hear from Mr. Gray
at the head office.  Where shall you stay in town?

"With a friend of mine—a Mrs. Pollen."  And
she gave him an address in Upper Brook Street
which he wrote down.

Before eleven o'clock Mrs. Morrison had dispatched
a telegram addressed to "Braybourne, 9b,
Pont Street, London," which read:

.. vspace:: 2

*"All preliminaries settled.  Shall be in London
end of week.*—AUGUSTA MORRISON."

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile, the solicitor, greatly elated at
securing such a remunerative piece of work, sent the
completed proposal to the head office of the company in
London, and on the following day, accompanied by
his wife, returned to his home in Manchester, after
what had turned out to be a very profitable as well
is beneficial holiday.

Before leaving, Mrs. Morrison arranged that he
should carry the whole matter through, her parting
injunction being:

"Remember—tell the Company to write to me at
Upper Brook Street, and not to Scotland.  And
always write to me yourself to London."

Now that same evening, after Emery's departure,
there arrived at the Beach Hotel, wearing rimless
pince-nez, a dark, strongly-built man, well dressed,
and with a heavy crocodile suit-case which spoke
mutely of wealth.  He signed the visitor's form as
Pomeroy Graydon, and gave his address as "Carleon
Road, Roath, Cardiff, Shipbroker."

He was late, and ate his dinner alone.  Afterwards
he went out for a stroll on the esplanade in
the direction of the Little Orme, when, after walking
nearly half a mile, he suddenly encountered the
red-haired widow, who was attired plainly in navy blue
with a small hat, having evidently changed her dress
after dinner.

"Well, Ena!" he exclaimed, lifting his soft felt
hat politely.  "I'm here, you see!  I thought it best
to come up and see you.  I'm at your hotel as
Mr. Graydon of Cardiff."

"I'm awfully glad you've come, Bernie," she said.
"I rather expected you."

"As soon as Lilla got your wire I started, and
was fortunate to get to Euston just in time for the
Irish mail—changed at Chester, and here I am!"

The pair strolled to a convenient seat close to
where the waves lazily lapped upon the wall of the
esplanade—for the tide was up—and the night a
perfect one with a full white moon.

"Everything going well?" asked the smartly
dressed man, whose pose in Hammersmith was so
entirely different.  He spoke in an eager tone.

"Yes, as far as I can see it's all plain sailing.
I'm doing my part, and leave you and Lilla to do the
rest.  I've met here a very nice young fellow—as I
intended—a useful solicitor named Emery, of Manchester.
He is carrying the matter through for me.
He's agent of the Universal."

"A first-class office."

"Well, I'm insuring with them in Lilla's favour."

"Have you carried out the plan we discussed?"

"To the very letter!  Trust me, my dear Bernie."

"I always do, Ena," he declared, gazing across
the moonlit sea.  They were alone on the seat, and
there was none to overhear:

"Ten thousand is a decent sum.  Let's hope it
will be all over soon.  I sometimes have bad quarters
of an hour—when I think!" he remarked.

"The sums assured have been higher and higher,"
she said.  "We started with five hundred—you
recollect the woman Bayliss?—and now we are always
in thousands.  Only you, Bernard, know how the
game should be played.  I do my part, but it is your
brain which evolves all this business for which the
companies are so eager, and which is so wonderful."

"True, our plan works well," Boyne admitted,
still gazing over the sea.  "We've all of us made
thousands out of it—haven't we?"

"Yes.  I can see no loophole by which the truth
might leak out—save one," she said very seriously.

"And what's that?"'

"Your visits to your wife," was her reply.  "Suppose
somebody watched you, and saw you leave your
frowsy little house in Hammersmith, go to Lilla in
Pont Street, and blossom forth into a gentleman of
means; it would certainly arouse a nasty suspicion.
Therefore you should always be most careful."

"I am.  Never fear," he said.  "Recollect, nobody
in Hammersmith knows that Lilla Braybourne is my wife."

"They don't know.  But they might suspect
things, which may lead eventually to an awkward
inquiry, and then——?"

"Oh! my dear Ena, don't contemplate unpleasant
things!" he urged, with a shrug of the shoulders.
"I know you are a clever woman—more clever by
far than Lilla herself—therefore I always rely upon
your discretion and foresight.  Now, tell me—what
has happened up to date?"

In reply she told him briefly of her meeting with
the young solicitor Emery—which she had prearranged,
by the way—and how she had entertained
the newly-married pair.

"They, of course, believe you to be Mrs. Augusta
Morrison, of Carsphairn, widow of old Joe Morrison,
the great shipbuilder of Govan?" he remarked,
smiling.

"Exactly.  As you know, I paid a visit in secret
to Carsphairn six weeks ago, and found out quite a
lot.  This I retailed to the Emerys, and they took
it all in.  I described Carsphairn to them, and showed
them the snapshots of the place which I took
surreptitiously when I was up there.  Indeed, I gave a
couple of them to Mrs. Emery—to make evidence."

"Excellent!" he exclaimed.  "You never leave
anything undone, Ena."

"One must be thorough in everything if one
desires success."

"And what is your address?"

"I gave it to my own flat in Upper Brook
Street—care of Ena Pollen—widow."

"So you will come to London?"

"Yes—I have to go there shopping before I return
to Scotland," she replied grimly.  "I am staying with
Mrs. Pollen."

"Good!  It will be far the best for their London
doctors to examine you.  If you were examined up
here they might resist the claim.  If they did
that—well, it would open up the whole business, and we
certainly can't afford to arouse the very least little
bit of doubt."

"Hardly," she laughed.  "Well, I've played the
game properly, my dear Bernie.  My name is
Morrison, and I am the widow of old Joe Morrison,
the woman with the red hair, and I live at Carsphairn,
Kirkcudbrightshire, the fine sporting estate
left me by my late husband.  All that is upon the
records of the Universal Life Assurance Corporation."

"Excellent!  You've established an undeniable
identity—red hair and everything!" he said, again
gazing reflectively out across the rippling waters.
"You have taken the first step."

"The second move is that Mrs. Morrison goes to
London on a shopping visit, prior to going abroad,"
the widow said.

"Really, you are marvellous, Ena!" declared the
humble insurance agent of Hammersmith.  "Your
foresight always carries you to success."

"In a number of cases it has done so, I admit,"
the woman laughed.  "When one's identity is not
exactly as one represents, one has to have one's eyes
skinned day and night.  Men—even the shrewdest
lawyers—are always easily gulled.  Why?  Because
of the rapacious maws the legal profession have for
fees.  Women are always dangerous, for they are
too frequently jealous of either good looks or pretty
frocks.  A man I can usually manage—a woman,
seldom, unless she is in love.  Then I side with her
in her love affair and so gain her confidence."

"Ena, I repeat I hold you in admiration as one of
the cleverest women I have ever known.  Nothing
deters you—nothing perturbs you!  You fix a plan,
and you carry it through in your own way—always
with profit to our little combination."

"And very substantial profit, I venture to think, eh?"

"I agree," he said, with a grim laugh.

"All thanks to you, my dear Bernie," the
red-haired woman said.  "But really I am growing just
a little apprehensive.  Why—I don't know, I cannot
tell.  But somehow I fear we may play the game
once too often.  And what then—eh?"

"Funnily enough, I've experienced the same
curiously apprehensive feeling of late," he said.  "I
always try, of course, to crush it out, just as I crush
out any other little pricks of conscience which occur
to me when I awake in the mornings."

"Very strange that we should both of us
entertain apprehensive feelings!" she remarked very
thoughtfully.  "I hope it's no ill omen!  Do you
think it is?"

"No," he laughed.  "Don't let us seek trouble—for
Heaven's sake.  At present there is not the
slightest danger.  Of that I feel confident.  Let us
go forward.  When shall you go up to London?"

"To-morrow.  I go to visit my dear friend,
Mrs. Pollen—as I have told you."

He laughed.

"So really you are going on a visit to
yourself—eh?  Excellent!  Really you are unique, Ena!"

"Well—it is the only way, and it will work well."

Then the strange pair, who were upon such intimate
terms, rose and strolled leisurely side by side
back towards the opposite end of the promenade,
chatting merrily the while.

When approaching the Beach Hotel they halted,
and the woman bade the man good-bye.  Afterwards
he sank upon a seat in one of the shelters, while she
walked on and entered the hotel.

Not until half an hour later, after he had taken
a stroll along to the end of the pier, where the band
was still playing, did he return to the hotel.
Mrs. Morrison was at the moment sitting in the lounge
chatting with two men visitors.  The eyes of the
pair met as he passed, but neither gave any sign of
recognition.

To those in the lounge the two were absolutely
strangers to each other.

Little did the other visitors dream of the dastardly,
even demoniacal, plot that was being so skilfully
woven in their midst.

Next afternoon Bernard Boyne stepped from out
of the Holyhead express upon Euston platform and
drove in a taxi to Pont Street, where he was greeted
warmly by his wife, who had been informed of his
advent by telegram from Chester.

"Well?" she asked, when the door of the
luxurious drawing-room was closed and they were
alone.  "And how did you find Ena?"

"She's splendid!  All goes well," was his enthusiastic
reply.  "She's got hold of a young Manchester
solicitor who is carrying the policy through all right.
He happens to be an agent of the Universal.  She's
on her way back to London now.  I wasn't seen
with her in the hotel, of course."

"When is she coming here?"

"To-night at nine.  She wants to see you."

"I think the less she sees of me just now the
better, don't you, Bernie?"

"I quite agree.  We don't want anyone to recognise
you as friends when the time comes," replied
Boyne.  "As soon as she gets passed by the
doctors—both of them unknown to any of us—which is a
blessing—she'll have to go up to Scotland."

"To New Galloway again?"

"No.  To Ardlui, that pretty little village at the
head of Loch Lomond.  The inquiries I have been
making of the servants at Carsphairn show that it is
the lady's intention to go with her maid to Ardlui for
a fortnight, and thence to Edinburgh for another
fortnight."

"Really, Bernie, you are wonderful in the way
you pry into people's intentions."

"Only by knowing the habits and intentions of
our friends can we hope to be successful," was his
reply, as he flung himself back among the silken
cushions of the couch and lazily lit a cigarette.

"So Ena will have to go to Scotland again?"

"Yes.  She ought to pass the doctors in a week,
for this young fellow is pushing it through because
of the handsome fee she will give him, and then,
in the following week, she must put on her best frocks
and best behaviour and take a 'sleeper' on the nine
twenty-five from Euston to Glasgow."

"What an adventure!" remarked the handsome
woman before him.

"Of course.  But we are out for big money this
time, remember."

"You have examined the whole affair, I suppose,
and considered it from every standpoint—eh?"

"Of course I have.  As far as I can discover,
there is no flaw in our armour.  This young solicitor
is newly married, and is much gratified that the
wealthy Mrs. Morrison should take such notice of
his young wife.  But you know Ena well enough to
be sure that she plays the game all right.  She's the
rich widow to the very letter, and talks about her
'dear husband' in a manner that is really pathetic.
She declares that they were such a devoted couple."

"Yes.  Ena can play the game better than any
woman in England," agreed his wife.  "Have some tea?"

"No; it's too hot," he replied.  "Get me some
lemonade."

And she rose, and presently brought him a glass
of lemonade.  She preferred to wait upon him, for
she was always suspicious of the maids trying to listen
to their conversation, which, however, was discreet
and well guarded.

That night at about half-past nine, husband and
wife having dined together *tête-à-tête*—being waited
on by the smart young Italian footman—Ena Pollen
was ushered into the drawing-room.

"Oh!  Welcome back, dear!" cried Mrs. Braybourne,
jumping up and embracing her friend,
making pretence, of course, before the servant.  "Sit
down.  I had no idea you were in London!  I thought
you were somewhere in the wilds of Wales."

Then, when the door had closed, her attitude
altered to one of deep seriousness.

"Well," she said, "according to Bernie, everything
goes well, doesn't it?"

"Excellently," replied the other.  "You see in
me Mrs. Augusta Morrison, widow, of Carsphairn,
New Galloway, who is in London on a visit to her
friend, Ena Pollen, and who is about to be passed as
a first-class life!"  And she laughed, the other two
smiling grimly.

"I congratulate you upon finding that young
solicitor.  What's his name?"

"Emery—just getting together a practice and
looking out for the big commission on the first of my
premiums," she said.  "We've met those before.  Do
you recollect that fellow Johnson-Hughes?  Phew! what
an ass!"

"But he was over head and ears in love with
you, my dear Ena," said Boyne, "and you know it."

"Don't be sarcastic, Bernie!" she exclaimed, with
a pout.  "Whether he was in love with me or not, it
doesn't matter.  We brought off the little affair
successfully, and we all had a share of the pickings.
In these post-war profiteering days it is only by
callous dishonour and double-dealing one can make
both ends meet.  It begins in the Cabinet and ends
with the marine store dealer.  Honesty spells ruin.
That's my opinion."

"I quite agree," Lilla declared.  "If we had all
three played a straight game, where should we be now?"

"Living in Bridge Place," remarked Boyne,
whereat the two women laughed merrily.

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.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



That night Marigold met Gerald at Mark Lane
Station, and they travelled westward together on the
way home.  In the Underground train they chatted
about the mystery of Bridge Place, but amid the
crush and turmoil of home-going City workers they
could say but little.

Marigold had been again to see her deaf aunt, who
was still unsuspicious of the strange state of affairs
in her master's humble home.

Gerald was next day compelled to accompany his
principal up north to a conference upon food prices,
and for ten days he remained away.  Therefore
Marigold could only watch and wait.

She went to Bridge Place several times, and saw
Mr. Boyne there.  He was always cheerful and
chatty.  About him there seemed nothing really
suspicious.  Indeed, when she considered it all, she
began to wonder whether she had not made a fool of
herself.





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.. _`PROGRESS OF THE PLOT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   PROGRESS OF THE PLOT

.. vspace:: 2

In the dull, sombre consulting-room of Sir Humphrey
Sinclair in Queen Anne Street, Cavendish Square—a
room with heavy mahogany furniture, well-worn
carpet, a big writing-table set in the window, and
an adjustable couch against the wall—sat the pseudo
Mrs. Augusta Morrison, who desired to insure her life.

At the table sat the great physician, a
clean-shaven, white-haired man, in large, round,
gold-rimmed spectacles.  He was dressed in a grey
cashmere suit—for the weather was unbearably hot that
morning—and, truth to tell, he was longing for his
annual vacation at his pretty house by the sea at
Frinton.

In the medical world Humphrey Sinclair had
made a great name for himself, and had had among
his patients various European royalties, besides large
numbers of the British aristocracy and well-known
people of both sexes.  Quiet mannered, soft spoken,
and exquisitely polite, he was always a favourite
with his lady patients, while Lady Sinclair herself
moved in a very good set.

Having arranged a number of papers which the
Universal had sent to him, he took one upon which
a large number of questions were printed with blank
spaces for the proposer's replies.  Then, turning to
her, he said, with a smile:

"I fear, Mrs. Morrison, that I shall be compelled
to ask you a number of questions.  Please understand
that they are not merely out of curiosity, but
the company claim a right to know the family and
medical history of any person whose life they insure.

"I perfectly understand, Sir Humphrey," replied
the handsome woman.  "Ask me any questions you
wish, and I will try to reply to them to the best of
my ability."

"Very well," he said.  "Let's begin."  And he
commenced to put to her questions regarding the
date of her birth, the cause of the deaths of her father
and her mother, whether she had ever suffered from
this disease or that, dozens of which were enumerated.
And so on.

For nearly half an hour the great doctor plied
her with questions which he read aloud from the
paper, and then wrote down her replies in the spaces
reserved for them.

Never once did she hesitate—she knew those
questions off by heart, indeed, and had her replies
ready, replies culled from a budget of information
which during the past three months had been cleverly
collected.  Truth to tell, she was replying quite
accurately to the questions, but only so far as
Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn was concerned.  The medical
history she gave was correct in every detail concerning
Mrs. Morrison.

But, after all, was not the proposal upon the life
of Mrs. Morrison, and did not the famous physician
believe her to be the widow of Carsphairn?

Sir Humphrey asked her to step upon the weighing
machine in the corner of the room, and afterwards
he measured her height and wrote it down with a
grunt of satisfaction.

Then, after further examination, and putting many
questions, he reseated himself, and turned to the page
upon which his own private opinion was to be
recorded.

"I hope you don't find much wrong with me?"
asked the lady, with a little hesitation.

"No, my dear madam—nothing that I can detect,"
was the physician's reply as he gazed at her through
his big glasses.  "Of course, my colleague, Doctor
Hepburn, may discover something.  I shall have to
ask you to call upon him."

"When?"

"Any time you care to arrange.  To-day—if you
like.  He may be at home.  Shall I see?"

"I do so wish you would, Sir Humphrey," Ena
said.  "I want to get back to Scotland, as I have
to go to Ardlui next week."

The great doctor took the telephone at his elbow,
and was soon talking to Doctor Hepburn, with whom
he arranged for the lady to call in an hour.

Then Sir Humphrey scribbled the address in
Harley Street on a slip of paper, and with a few
polite words of reassurance, rang his bell, and the
man-servant conducted her out.

"An exceptionally pretty woman," grunted old
Sir Humphrey to himself when she had gone.
"Highly intelligent, and a first-class life."

And he sat down to record his own private views
as to the physical condition of the person proposed
for insurance.

Ena idled before the shop windows in Oxford
Street for three-quarters of an hour, and then took
a taxi to Harley Street, where she found Doctor
Stanley Hepburn, a short, stout, brown-bearded man
of rather abrupt manner.

In his smart, up-to-date consulting-room he put
the same questions to her, wearying as they were,
and parrot-like she answered them.

"Truly, I'm having a busy morning, doctor,"
she remarked, with a sigh, laughing at the same
time.

"Apparently," he said, smiling.  "I must apologise
for bothering you with all these questions.
Sir Humphrey has, no doubt, gone through them all."

"He has."

"Well, never mind.  Forgive me, and let's get
along," he said briskly.

And he proceeded with question after question.
At last, after an examination exactly like that
conducted by Sir Humphrey, Doctor Hepburn
reseated himself at his table, and said:

"Well, Mrs. Morrison, I don't think I need keep
you any longer."

"Are you quite satisfied with me?" she asked
boldly.

He was silent for a few seconds.

"As far as I myself am concerned I see no reason
whatever why the company should not accept the
risk," was his reply.  "Of course, I don't know the
nature of Sir Humphrey's report; but I expect it
coincides with my own.  I can detect nothing to
cause apprehension, and, in normal circumstances,
you should live to quite old age."

"Thanks!  That is a very agreeable piece of
information," she said.

Then, his waiting-room being crowded—for he
had given her a special appointment—he rose and,
bowing, dismissed her, saying:

"I shall send in my report to the company
to-night, therefore the matter should go through without
delay."

Afterwards, as she walked along Harley Street,
a great weight having been lifted from her mind,
she hailed a taxi and drove back to her pretty flat in
Upper Brook Street, where a dainty lunch awaited her.

To answer frankly and correctly those questions
had been an ordeal.  Those queries were so cleverly
arranged that if, after death, the replies to any of
them are found to be false the company would be
able to resist the claim upon it.  To give a true
and faithful account of your parents' ailments and
your own illnesses is difficult enough, but to give
an equally true account of those of another
person is extremely difficult and presents many
pitfalls.  And none knew that better than Ena
Pollen.

After lunch, she rested for an hour, as was
her habit in summer, and then she took a taxi
to Pont Street, where she had tea with Lilla Braybourne.

To her she related her adventures among the
medicos, adding:

"All is serene!  There's nothing the matter with
Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn!  She's in excellent
health and may live to be ninety.  Hers is a
first-class life!"

"Bernie predicted it," said the wife of the humble
insurance agent of Hammersmith.  "You were passed
fit in the Fitzgerald affair—you recollect."

"Yes," snapped the handsome woman.  "What
a pity the sum wasn't five thousand instead of five
hundred."

"I agree.  But we didn't then realise how easy
was the game.  Now we know—a few preliminary
inquiries, a plausible tongue—which, thanks to
Heaven, you've got, Ena—a few smart dresses, and
a knowledge of all the devious ways of insurance and
assignments—and the thing is easy."

"Well, as far as we've gone in this matter all
goes well—thanks to Bernie's previous inquiries
regarding the good lady of Carsphairn."

"She's a bit of a skinflint, I believe.  Can't keep
servants.  She has a factor who is a very close Scot,
and things at Carsphairn are usually in a perturbed
condition," Lilla said.  "Bernie has gone back to
Bridge Place.  What an awful life the poor dear
leads!  Fancy having to live with that deaf old
woman Felmore!"

"Yes.  But isn't it part of the game?  By living
in Hammersmith, and being such a hard-working,
respectable man, he acquires a lot of very useful
knowledge."

"Quite so; but it must be very miserable there
for him."

"He doesn't mind it, he says," was the reply.
"It brings money."

"It certainly does that," said Lilla.  "When shall
you go north?  Will you wait till the policy is
issued?"

"I think not.  The sooner I meet Mrs. Morrison
the better.  Don't you agree?"

"Certainly.  What does Bernie say?"

"That's his view," answered Ena.  "So I shall
go to Scotland at the end of the week.  I shall stay
at the Central, in Glasgow, for a night or two, and
then on to Loch Lomond."

"Bernie has heard from one of his secret sources
of information that the widow is leaving Carsphairn
three days earlier than she intended.  She goes to
visit a niece who lives in Crieff, and then on to
Ardlui."

"I've been to Ardlui before—on a day trip from
Glasgow up the Loch," Ena said.  "A quiet, remote
little place, with an excellent hotel right at the extreme
end of the Loch, beyond Inversnaid."

"Then you'll go north without waiting for the policy?"

"Yes.  Letters will come to me addressed care
of myself, and Bernie will send them on.  As soon
as I have notice that the company will accept me,
I'll pay the premium.  I've already opened a little
account in the name of Augusta Morrison, so that I
can send them a cheque.  In the meanwhile, we need
lose no time."

"And yet I don't think we ought to rush it unduly,
do you?" asked Lilla.

"Oh! we shan't do that, my dear Lilla.  There's
a lot to be done in the matter of inspiring confidence.
Perhaps dear Augusta will not take to me.  What
then?"

"You always know how to make yourself pleasant,
Ena.  She'll take to you, never fear!"

"According to the reports we've had about her,
she's rather discriminating in her friendships," said
the handsome woman, smiling grimly.

"Well, I rather wish I were coming with you for
a fortnight on Loch Lomond," said Lilla.

"No, my dear, you have no place in the picture
at present.  Much as I would like your companionship,
you are far better here at home."

"Yes, I suppose you are right!" answered her
friend, sighing.  "But I long for Scotland in these
warm summer days."

"Get Bernie to take you to the seaside for a bit.
There's nothing urgent doing just now."

"Bernie is far too busy in Hammersmith, my
dear," Lilla laughed.  "He wouldn't miss his weekly
round for worlds.  Besides, he's got some important
church work on—helping the vicar in a series of
mission meetings."

"Bernie is a good Churchman, I've heard," said Ena.

"Of course.  That, too, is part of the big bluff.
The man who carries round the bag every Sunday
is always regarded as pious and upright.  And
Bernie never loses a chance to increase his halo of
respectability."

Ena remained at Pont Street for about half an
hour longer, and then, returning to her own flat, she
set about sorting out the dresses she would require
for Scotland, and assisted her elderly maid to pack
them.

Afterwards she returned into her elegant little
drawing-room and seated herself at the little writing-table,
where she consulted a diary.  Then she wrote
telegrams to the hotels at Glasgow and at Ardlui,
engaging rooms for dates which, after reflection, she
decided upon.

Ena Pollen was a woman of determination and
method.  Her exterior was that of a butterfly of
fashion, careless of everything save her dress and her
hair, yet beneath the surface she was calm, clever,
and unscrupulous, a woman who had never loved,
and who, indeed, held the opposite sex in supreme
contempt.  The adventure in which she was at that
moment engaged was the most daring she had ever
undertaken.  The unholy trio had dabbled in small
affairs, each of which had brought them profit, but
the present undertaking would, she knew, require all
her tact and cunning.

The real Mrs. Augusta Morrison, the widow of
Carsphairn, was one of Boyne's discoveries, and by
judicious inquiry, combined with other investigations
which Ena herself had made, they knew practically
everything concerning her, her friends, and her
movements.  The preliminaries had taken fully three
months, for prior to going to Llandudno, there to
assume the widow's identity, Ena had been in secret
to New Galloway, and while staying at the Lochinvar
Arms, at Dairy, she had been able to gather many
facts concerning the rich widow of Carsphairn, a copy
of whose birth and marriage-certificate she had
obtained from Somerset House.

After writing the telegrams, she took a sheet of
notepaper and wrote to Mr. Emery in Manchester,
telling him that she had passed both doctors, and
asking him to hurry forward the policy.

.. vspace:: 2

"*My movements during the next fortnight or so
are a little uncertain," she wrote, "but please always
address me as above, care of my friend, Mrs. Pollen.
Please give my best regards to your dear wife, and
accept the same yourself .—Yours very sincerely,*
AUGUSTA MORRISON."

.. vspace:: 2

Three nights later, Ena left Euston in the sleeping-car
for Glasgow, arriving early next morning, and
for a couple of days idled away the time in the great
hotel, the Central, eagerly awaiting a telegram.

At last it came.

The porter handed it to her as she returned from
a walk.  She tore it open, and when she read its
contents, she went instantly pale.

The message was disconcerting, for instead of
giving information regarding the movements of the
woman she had been impersonating, it read:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Remain in Glasgow.  Am leaving to-night.
Will be with you in morning.  Urgent*.—BERNARD."

.. vspace:: 2

What could have happened?  A hitch had apparently
occurred in the arrangements, which had
been so thoroughly discussed and every detail
considered.

It was then six o'clock in the evening.  Boyne
could not be there until eight o'clock on the
following morning.  She glanced bewildered around the
busy hall of the hotel, where men and women with
piles of luggage were constantly arriving and departing.

"Why is he not more explicit?" she asked herself
in apprehension.

What could have happened? she wondered.  For
yet another fourteen hours she must remain in
suspense.

Suddenly, however, she recollected that she could
telephone to Lilla, and she put through a call
without delay.

Half an hour later she spoke to her friend over
the wire, inquiring the reason of Boyne's journey
north.

"My dear, I'm sorry," replied Lilla in her high-pitched
voice, "but I really cannot tell you over the
'phone.  It is some very important business he wants
to see you about."

"But am I not to go to Ardlui?" asked Ena.

"I don't know.  Bernie wants to see you without
delay—that's all."

"But has anything happened?" she demanded eagerly.

"Yes—something—but I can't tell you now.
Bernie will explain.  He'll be with you in Glasgow
early to-morrow morning."

"Is it anything very serious?"

"*I think it may be—very!*" was Lilla's reply;
and at that moment the operator cut off communication
with London, the six minutes allowed having
expired.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CONTAINS A NOTE OF ALARM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   CONTAINS A NOTE OF ALARM

.. vspace:: 2

Ena Pollen was on the platform when the dusty
night express from London ran slowly into the
Caledonian Station, at Glasgow.

Bernard Boyne, erect and smartly-dressed, stepped
out quickly from the sleeping-car, to be greeted by her
almost immediately.

"What's happened?" she demanded anxiously
beneath her breath.

"I can't tell you here, Ena.  Wait till we're in
the hotel," he replied.  She saw by his countenance
that something was amiss.

Together they walked from the platform into the
hotel, and having ascended in the lift to her private
sitting-room, the man flung himself into a chair, and
said:

"A very perilous situation has arisen regarding
the Martin affair!"

"The Martin affair!" she gasped, instantly pale
to the lips.  "I always feared it.  That girl, Céline
Tènot, had some suspicion, I believe."

"Exactly.  She was your maid, and you parted
bad friends.  It was injudicious."

"Where is she now, I wonder?"

"At her home in Melun, near Paris.  You must
go at once to Paris, and ask her to meet you," Boyne
said.

"To Paris?" she cried in dismay.

"Yes; not a second must be lost.  Inquiries are
on foot.  I discovered the situation yesterday, quite
by accident."

"Inquiries!" she cried.  "Who can be making
inquiries?"

"Some friend of that girl—a Frenchman.  He has
come over here to find me."

"To find you!  But she only knew you under
the name of Bennett!"

"Exactly.  In that is our salvation," he said, with
a grin.  "But the affair is distinctly serious unless
we can make peace with Céline, and at the same time
make it worth her while to withdraw this inquiry.
No doubt she's looking forward to a big reward for
furnishing information."

"But why can't we give her the reward—eh?"
asked the shrewd, red-haired woman quickly.

"That's exactly my argument.  That is why you
must leave this present little matter, turn back to
Céline, and make it right with her."

"How much do you think it will cost?"

Bernard Boyne shrugged his shoulders.

"Whatever it is, we must pay," he replied.  "We
can't afford for this girl to remain an enemy—and
yours especially."

"Of course not," Ena agreed.  "What is her
address?"

Boyne took a slip of paper from his pocket-book
and handed it to the handsome woman.

"But what excuse can I possibly make for
approaching her?" she asked bewildered.

"Pretend you've come to Paris to offer to take
her into your service again," Boyne suggested.  "She
will then meet you, and you can express regret that
you sent her away so suddenly, and offer to make
reparation—and all that."

"There was an object in sending her away so
peremptorily.  You know what it was, Bernie."

"I know, of course.  She might have discovered
something then.  You adopted the only course—but,
unfortunately, it has turned out to have been
a most injudicious one, which may, if we are not
very careful and don't act at once, lead to the
exposure of a very nasty circumstance—the affair of
old Martin."

"I quite see," she said.  "I'll go to Paris without
delay."

"You'll stay at the Bristol, as before, I suppose?"

"Yes.  I will ask her to come and see me there."

Boyne hesitated.

"No.  I don't know whether it would not be
better for you to go out to Melun for the day and
find her there," he queried.  "Remember, you must
handle the affair with the greatest delicacy.  You've
practically got to pay her for blackmail which she
has not sought."

"That's the difficulty.  And the sum must be
equal, if not more, to that which she and her French
friend who has come over here to seek and identify
you hope to get out of it by their disclosures.
Oh! yes," she said, "I quite see it all."

"I admit that the situation which has arisen is
full of peril, Ena," remarked the man seated before
her, "but you are a clever woman, and with the
exercise of tact and cunning, in addition to the
disbursement of funds, we shall undoubtedly be able
to wriggle out—as we always do."

"Let's hope so," she said, with a sigh.  "But
what about Ardlui and Mrs. Morrison?"

"Your visit to Paris is more important at the
moment.  You must lose no time in getting there.
Before I left London, I instructed my bank to send
five thousand pounds to you at the head office of the
Credit Lyonnais.  You will be able to draw at once
when you get there, and it will give you time to get
more money if you deem it wise to pay any bigger
sum."

"Really, you leave nothing undone, Bernie.

"Not when danger arises, my dear Ena," he
laughed.  "In the meantime, I'll have to remain very
low.  That infernal Frenchman may be watching
Lilla with the idea that I might visit Pont Street.
But I shan't go near her again till the danger is
past."

"Then I'd better get away as soon as possible,"
she said.  "I can be in London this evening, and
cross to Paris by the night mail."

"Yes," he replied.  "Don't waste an instant in
getting in touch with her.  Have a rest in Paris,
and then go to Melun.  You can be there to-morrow
afternoon."

"Shall you go back to London with me?"

"No.  Better not be seen together," he said.
"Let us be discreet.  You can go by the ten o'clock
express, which will just give you time to cross
London to Victoria and catch the boat train, and
I'll leave by the next express, which goes at one.
The less we are together at present the better."

"I agree entirely," Ena said, with a sigh.  "But
this affair will, I see, be very difficult to adjust."

"Not if you keep your wits about you, Ena," he
assured her.  "It isn't half so difficult as the
arrangements you made with that pious old fellow Fleming.
Don't you recollect how very near the wind we were
all sailing, and yet you took him in hand and
convinced him of your innocence."

"I was dealing with a man then," she remarked.
"Now I have to deal with a shrewd girl.  Besides,
we don't know who this inquisitive Frenchman may be."

"You'll soon discover all about him, no doubt.
Just put on your thinking-cap on the way over to
Paris, and doubtless before you arrive, you'll hit upon
some plan which will be just as successful as the
attitude you adopted towards old Daniel Fleming."  Then
he added: "I wish you'd order breakfast to
be served up here, for I'm ravenously hungry."

She rose, rang the bell, and ordered breakfast for
two.

While it was being prepared, Boyne went along
the corridor to wash, while Ena retired to her room,
and packed her trunk ready for her departure south
at ten o'clock.

Afterwards she saw the head porter and got him
to secure her a place on the train, and also in the
restaurant-car, which is usually crowded.

They breakfasted *tête-à-tête*, after which she paid
her bill, and at ten o'clock left him standing upon
the platform to idle away three hours wandering
about the crowded Glasgow streets before his
departure at one o'clock.

Next morning Ena Pollen took her déjeuner at
half-past eleven in the elegant table d'hôte room of
the aristocratic Hôtel Bristol, in Paris, a big white
salon which overlooks the Place Vendôme.  Afterwards
she took a taxi to the Gare de Lyon, whence
she travelled to Melun, thirty miles distant—that
town from which come the Brie cheeses.  On
arrival, she inquired for the Boulevard Victor Hugo,
and an open cab drove her away across the little
island in the Seine, past the old church of St. Aspais,
to a point where, in the boulevard, stood a
monument to the great savant, Pasteur.  The cab pulled
up opposite the monument, where, alighting, Ena
found herself before a large four-storied house, the
ground floor of which was occupied by a tobacconist
and a shop which sold comestibles.

Of the old bespectacled concierge who was
cobbling boots in the entrance she inquired for
Madame Ténot, and his gruff reply was:

"Au troisième, à gauche."

So, mounting the stone steps, she found the
left-hand door on the third floor, and rang the bell.

The door opened, and the good-looking young
French girl, who had been her maid for six months
at Brighton, confronted her.

"Well, Céline!" exclaimed Ena merrily in
French.  "You didn't expect to see me—did you?"

The girl stood aghast and open-mouthed.

"*Dieu*!  Madame!" she gasped.  "I—I certainly
did not!"

"Well, I chanced to be passing through Melun,
and I thought I would call upon you."

The girl stood in the doorway, apparently disinclined
to invite her late mistress into the small flat
which she and her mother, the widow of the local
postmaster, occupied.

"I wrote to you, Madame, two months ago—but
you never replied!"

"I have never had any letter from you, Céline,"
Ena declared.  "But may I not come in for a moment
to have a chat with you?  Ah! but perhaps you have
visitors?"

"No, Madame," was her reply; "I am alone.  My
mother went to my aunt's, at Provins, this morning."

"Good!  Then I may come in?"

"If Madame wishes," she said, still with some
reluctance, and led the way to a small, rather
sparsely-furnished salon, which overlooked the cobbled street
below.

"I have been staying a few days at Marlotte, and
am now on my way back to Paris," said her former
mistress, seating herself in a chair.  "Besides, I
wanted particularly to see you, Céline, for several
reasons.  I feel somehow that—well, that I have not
treated you as I really ought to have done.  I
dismissed you abruptly after poor Mr. Martin's death.
But I was so very upset—I was not actually myself.
I know I ought not to have done what I did.  Please
forgive me."

The dark-haired, good-looking young girl in
well-cut black skirt and cotton blouse merely shrugged
her well-shaped shoulders.  She uttered no word.
Indeed, she had not yet recovered from her surprise
at the sudden appearance of her former mistress.

"I don't know what you must have thought of
me, Céline," Ena added.

"I thought many things of Madame," the girl
admitted.

"Naturally.  You must have thought me most
ungrateful, after all the services you had rendered
me, often without reward," remarked the red-haired
widow.  "But I assure you that I am not ungrateful."

The girl only smiled.  She recollected the manner
in which she had been suddenly dismissed and sent
out from the house at five minutes' notice—and for
no fault that she could discover.

She recollected how Madame had two friends, an
old man named Martin, and a younger one named
Bennett.  Mr. Martin, who was a wealthy bachelor,
living in Chiswick, had suddenly contracted typhoid
and died.  Madame, who had been most grief-stricken,
received a visit from Bennett next day, and
she had overheard the pair in conversation in the
drawing-room.  That conversation had been of a
most curious character, but its true import had never
occurred to her at the time.  Next day her mistress
had summarily dismissed her, giving her a month's
wages, and requesting her to leave instantly.  This
she had done, and returned to her home in France.

It was not until nearly two months later that she
realised the grim truth.  The strange words of
Mr. Bennett, as she recollected them, utterly staggered
her.

And now this woman's sudden appearance had
filled her with curiosity.

"Your action in sending me away in the manner
you did certainly did not betray any sense of
gratitude, Madame," the girl said quite coolly.

"No, no, Céline!  Do forgive me," she urged.
"Poor Mr. Martin was a very old friend, and his
death greatly perturbed me."

Céline, however, remembered how to the man
Bennett she had in confidence expressed the greatest
satisfaction that the old man had died.

Ena was, of course, entirely ignorant of how
much of that conversation the girl had overheard or
understood.  Indeed, she had not been quite certain
it the girl had heard anything.  She had dismissed
her for quite another reason—in order that, if
inquiries were made, a friendship between Bernard
Boyne and the dead man could not be established.
Céline was the only person aware of it, hence she
constituted a grave danger.

Ena used all her charm and her powers of persuasion
over the girl, and as she sat chatting with
her, she recalled many incidents while the girl was
in her service.

"Now look here, Céline," she said at last.  "I'll
be perfectly frank with you.  I've come to ask you
if you'll let bygones be bygones, and return to
me?"

The girl, much surprised at the offer, hesitated
for a moment, and then replied:

"I regret, Madame, it is quite impossible.  I
cannot return to London."

That was exactly the reply for which the clever
woman wished.

"Why not, pray?" she asked the girl in a tone
of regret.

"Because the man to whom I am betrothed would
not allow me," was her reply.

"Oh!  Then you are engaged, Céline!  Happy
girl!  I congratulate you most heartily.  And who
is the happy man?"

"Henri Galtier."

"And what is his profession?"

"He is employed in the Mairie, at Chantilly," was
her reply.

"He is at Chantilly now?"

The girl again hesitated.  Then she replied:

"No—he is in London."

Ena held her breath.  It was evidently the man
to whom Céline was engaged who was in London in
search of Richard Bennett.  Next second she
recovered from her excitement at her success in making
the discovery.

"In London?  Is he employed there?"

"Yes—temporarily," she answered.

"And when are you to marry?"

"In December—we hope."

"Ah!  Then, much as I regret it, I quite understand
that you cannot return to me, Céline,"
exclaimed Ena.  "Does Monsieur Galtier speak
English?"

"Yes; very well, Madame.  He was born in
London, and lived there until he was eighteen."

"Oh, well, of course he would speak our language
excellently.  But though you will no doubt both be
happy in the near future, I myself am not at all
satisfied with my own conduct towards you.  I've
treated you badly; I feel that in some way or other
I ought to put myself right with you.  I never like
a servant to speak badly of me."

"I do not speak badly of Madame," responded
the girl, wondering whether, after all, her late
mistress suspected her of overhearing that startling
conversation late on the night following Mr. Martin's
death.

Ena hesitated a moment, and then determined to
act boldly, and said:

"Now Céline, let us be quite frank.  I happen
know that you have said some very nasty and
things about me—wicked things, indeed.  I
heard that you have made a very serious
allegation against me, and——"

"But, Madame!  I——!" cried the girl, interrupting.

"Now you cannot deny it, Céline.  You have said
those things because you have sadly misjudged me.
But I know it is my own fault, and the reason I am
here in Melun is to put matters right—and to show
you that I bear you no ill will."

"I know that, Madame," she said.  "Your words
are sufficient proof of it."

"But, on the contrary, you are antagonistic—bitterly
antagonistic towards myself—and"—she
added slowly, looking straight into the girl's
face—"and also towards Mr. Bennett."

She started, looking sharply at the red-haired
widow.

"Yes, I repeat it, Céline!" Ena went on.  "You
see I know the truth!  Yet your feeling against
Mr. Bennett does not matter to him in the least, because
he died a month ago—of influenza."

"Mr. Bennett dead!" echoed the girl, standing
aghast, for, as a matter of fact, her lover, Henri
Galtier, was searching for him in London.

"Yes; the poor fellow went to Birmingham on
business, took influenza, and died there a week later.
Is it not sad?"

"Very," the girl agreed, staring straight before
her.  If Bennett were dead, then of what avail would
be all her efforts to probe the mystery of Mr. Martin's
death?

"Mr. Bennett was always generous to you—was
he not?" asked Ena.

"Always," replied the girl.  "I am very sorry he
is dead!"

"Well, he is, and therefore whatever hatred you
may have conceived for him is of no importance,"
she replied; and then adroitly turned the
conversation to another subject.

At length, however, she returned to Céline's
approaching marriage, expressing a hope that she
would be very comfortably off.

"Has Monsieur Galtier money?"

"Not very much," she replied.  "But we shall
be quite happy nevertheless."

"Of course.  Money does not always mean
happiness.  I am glad you view matters in that light,
Céline," Ena said.  "Yet, on the other hand, money
contributes to luxury, and luxury, in most cases,
means happiness."

"True, Madame, I believe so," replied the
ex-maid, whose thoughts were, however, filled by what
her late mistress had, apparently in all innocence,
told her, namely, that Bennett, the man her lover
meant to hunt down, was dead.  She had no reason
to doubt what Mrs. Pollen had said, for only on the
previous day Henri had written her to say that his
inquiries had had no result, and that he believed
that the man Bennett must be dead, as he could
obtain no trace of him.  The reward which they
hoped to gain from the insurance company when
they had established Bennett's identity had therefore
vanished into air.

Céline Tènot sat bewildered and disappointed,
and the clever woman seated with her read her
thoughts as she would have read a book.

"Now let's come to the point," she said, after a
pause.  "I want to make amends, Céline.  I want
you to think better of me, and for that purpose, I
want to render you some little service, now that you
are to marry.  My desire is to remove from your
mind any antagonism you may entertain towards
myself.  The best way in which I can do that is
to make you a little wedding-present—something
useful."

"Oh, Madame!" she cried.  "I—I really want
nothing!"

"But I insist, Céline!" replied the wealthy
widow.  "Poor Mr. Bennett remarked that I was very
harsh in dismissing you.  At the time I did not think
so, but I now realise that the fault was on my side,
therefore I shall give you thirty thousand francs to
put by as a little nest-egg."

"But, Madame, I could not really accept it!"
declared the girl, exhibiting her palms.

"I have an account at the Credit Lyonnais, and
to-morrow I shall place the thirty thousand francs
there in your name," said Mrs. Pollen.  "I shall want
you to come to Paris—to the Hôtel Bristol—so that
we can go to the bank together, and you can there
open an account and give them your signature.  If
I were you, I would say nothing whatever to Monsieur
Galtier about it—or even tell him of my visit.
Just keep the money for yourself—as a little present
from one who, after all, greatly valued your services."

Though the girl pretended to be entirely against
receiving any present, yet she realised that possession
of such a respectable sum would be able to assist in
preparing her new home.  After all, it was most
generous of Madame.  Yes! she had sadly misjudged
her, she reflected, after Mrs. Pollen had left.
So, adopting her late mistress's suggestion, she
refrained from telling her mother of the unexpected
visit.

That night she wrote to Galtier, who was staying
in a boarding-house in Bloomsbury, telling him that
she had heard of the death of Bennett, but not
revealing the source of her information.  She
therefore suggested that he should spend no further time
or money on the inquiry, but return at once to his
duties at Chantilly.

Next day Céline called at the Hôtel Bristol, when
mistress and maid went together to the bank in the
Boulevard des Italians, and there the girl received the
handsome present.  After this, she returned much
gratified to Melun, while her late mistress left Paris
that same night for London.

She had cleverly gained the girl's complete
confidence, thereby preventing any further inquiry into
the curious circumstances attending the death of
Mr. Martin, of Chiswick.





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.. _`THE LOCKED ROOM IN HAMMERSMITH`:

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   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE LOCKED ROOM IN HAMMERSMITH

.. vspace:: 2

"I'll go in first, and see if Mr. Boyne is at home,"
said Marigold Ramsay excitedly to her companion,
Gerald Durrant, as they turned into Bridge Place,
Hammersmith, about half-past nine one night ten
days later.

"Yes.  If he's there I won't come in.  We'll wait
till another evening," the young fellow said.

"If he's out, I shall tell auntie that you are here,
and ask whether I can bring you in," said the girl,
and leaving him idling at the corner, she hurried to
the house, and went down the basement steps.

What Marigold had told Durrant had aroused
his curiosity concerning the occupier of that
creeper-covered house, and after much deliberation, he had,
after his return from Newcastle, decided to make an
investigation.  Certainly the exterior of the place
presented nothing unusual, for the house was exactly
the same as its neighbours, save for the dusty creeper
which hung untrimmed around the windows.  Yet
the fact that the man who lived there disguised
himself when he went to a locked attic was certainly
mysterious.

After a few moments, the girl emerged, and
hastening towards him, said eagerly:

"It's all right.  Mr. Boyne is not expected home
before half-past ten.  I'll introduce you to my aunt,
and before she goes to bed—as she always does at
ten—I'll manage to unbolt the basement door.  Then
we'll go out, and return without her being any the
wiser."

"Excellent!" he replied, as they walked to the
front door which Marigold had left ajar.

In the hall Mrs. Felmore met them fussily.

"Very pleased to know you, Mr. Durrant," declared
the deaf old lady without, of course, having
heard Gerald's greeting as he shook her hand.

"My aunt is very deaf," the girl said.  "She can
read what I say by my lips, but it will be useless for
you to try and converse with her.  Mr. Boyne
can just manage to do so."

"Then I'll do the same," said Gerald, glancing
around the front parlour, into which Mrs. Felmore
had then ushered them.

He noted the cheapness of the furniture, combined
with scrupulous cleanliness, as Mrs. Felmore, turning
to him, said in that loud voice in which the deaf
usually converse:

"I hope you'll make yourself at home, Mr. Durrant!
Any friend of my niece is welcome here.
Would you like a cup of tea?  I know Marigold will
have one."

He thanked her, and she went below to prepare
it, leaving the pair in Mr. Boyne's room.

Quickly Gerald rose, remarking:

"There's nothing very curious about this, is
there?"  He made a critical tour of the apartment.

He noticed the cupboards on either side of the
fireplace, and on trying the handle of one, found it
locked.

"He keeps his insurance papers in there," said
his companion in a low voice.

"What?  More insurance papers!  I thought he
kept them in the locked room upstairs!" exclaimed
Durrant.

"So he does, but there are some others here," she
said.  "This cupboard is open.  He keeps Nibby
here."

"Nibby—who's that?"

"Here he is!" replied the girl, opening the door
and taking out the cage containing the tame rat.

"Is that his pet?" asked the young man, bending
to examine the little animal, whose beady eyes
regarded him with considerable apprehension.

"Yes.  Nibby always feeds off his master's plate
after he has finished.  A sweet little thing, isn't he?"

Durrant agreed, but the possession of such a pet
showed him that Boyne was a man of some
eccentricity.

"Would you like to see the door of the locked
room?" Marigold asked.  "If so, I'll go downstairs
and keep my aunt there while you run up to the top
floor."

"Excellent!  I've brought my electric torch with me."

So while Marigold descended to the kitchen to
talk to her aunt and help to prepare the cup of tea,
young Durrant switched on his light and rushed
up the stairs, half fearing lest the front door should
suddenly open and Boyne appear.

Arrived at the top of the stairs, he was confronted
by the door which led into the attic, a stout one of
oak, he noted.  The doors of all the other rooms were
of deal, painted and grained.  This, however, was
heavy, and of oiled oak.

After careful examination, he came to the conclusion
that the particular door was much more modern
than the others, and the circular brass keyhole of the
Yale latch gave it the appearance of the front door
of a house, rather than that of a room.

Some strange secret, no doubt, lay behind that
locked door.

If it had an occupant he would, in all probability,
have a light, therefore he switched off his torch and
tried to discover any ray of light shining through
a crack.

Carefully he went around the whole door, until
he drew away the mat before it, when, sure enough,
*a light showed from within*!

With bated breath he listened.  He could, however,
distinguish no sound, even though he placed his
ear to the floor.  Then, raising himself, much
gratified at his discovery, but nevertheless increasingly
puzzled, he recollected that the occupant, whoever
he might be, would no doubt have heard his
footsteps and was now remaining quiet, little
dreaming that his light had betrayed his presence.

Suddenly, as he stood there straining his ears,
he heard the sound of low ticking—the ticking of a
clock.  Again he bent his ear to the bottom of the
door, and then at once established the fact that the
clock was inside that locked room.

He heard Marigold coming up from below, and
at once slipped down again, meeting her in the hall.
When within the sitting-room, he said to her in
a low, tense voice:

"There's somebody in that room!  There's a
light there!"

"Your first surmise is correct then, Gerald!" she
exclaimed.  "Who can it possibly be?"

"Ah! that we have to discover!" he said.
"Let's be patient.  I wonder, however, who can be
living up there in secret.  At any rate, he has both
light and the time of day.  In this weather he only
wants food and water."

"But it's extraordinary that somebody should live
here without my aunt's knowledge."

"It is.  But there are dozens of people hidden
away in London—people believed by their friends to
be dead, or abroad," he said.  "In a great city like
ours it is quite easy to hide, providing that one is
concealed by a trusty friend.  I wonder," he added,
"how many people whose obituary notices have
appeared in the papers are living in secret in upstairs
rooms or down in cellars, dragging out their lives
in self-imprisonment, yet buoyed by the hope that
one day they may, when changed in appearance
by years, reappear among their fellow-men and
laugh up their sleeves because nobody recognises
them."

"Really, do you honestly think that Mr. Boyne
is concealing somebody here?" asked the girl
anxiously.

"Everything points to it—a light in the room, and
a clock."

"But why should he pay visits to him in disguise?"

"Ah!  That's quite another matter.  We have
yet to discover the motive.  And we can only do so
by watching vigilantly."

Then he described to her how he had pulled away
the mat from before the door, and how the light had
been revealed.

"Well," exclaimed the girl.  "I'm greatly
puzzled over the whole affair.  May I not be frank
with auntie, and tell her what we suspect?"

"By no means," he answered.  "It would be most
injudicious.  It would only alarm her, and upset any
plans we may make."

"I wonder who can really be up there?"

"Some very close friend of this Mr. Boyne,
without a doubt.  He must have some strange motive
for concealing him."

"But if he's a friend, why does he disguise
himself when he visits him?" queried the girl.

"Yes, that's just the point.  There's something
very curious about the whole affair," declared the
young man.  "When your aunt is in bed, he goes
up, evidently to take his friend food and drink.  And
yet he puts on a gown which makes him look—as you
have described it—like a Spanish Inquisitor."

"Only all in white.  Why white?"

"Can it be that the person upstairs is not
self-imprisoned?" suggested the young man, as a sudden
thought occurred to him.  "Can it be that whoever
is confined there is without proper mental balance?
Solitary confinement produces madness, remember.
In Italy, where solitary confinement for life takes the
place of capital punishment for murder, the criminal
always ends his days as a lunatic—driven mad by
that terrible loneliness which even a dog could not
suffer."

"That's certainly quite another point of view,"
she remarked.  "I hadn't thought of that!"

"Well, it is one to bear in mind," he said.  "Your
aunt, a most worthy lady, is devoted to Mr. Boyne
and serves him well.  For the present let her hold
him in high esteem.  In the meantime we will watch,
and endeavour to solve this mystery, Marigold."

Hardly had the words left his mouth, when the
old lady entered the room with two cups of tea upon
a brass tray.

"There!" she said, addressing Marigold.  "I
know you like a cup o' tea at this hour of the
evening, and I hope, Mr. Durrant, it will be to your
liking.  Mr. Boyne often has a cup out of my teapot
if he gets home before I go to bed."

"It's awfully good of you, auntie," the girl
declared.  "I know Mr. Durrant highly appreciates it."

"That's all right," laughed the old lady.  "I'll
soon be going to bed.  It's near ten o'clock now."

Gerald glanced at his wrist-watch and saw that
it was just ten.

Then, when Mrs. Felmore had gone, he said to
the girl:

"Hadn't we better be going?  Boyne will be
back soon."

"Right," she said, drinking her tea daintily.
"I'll go down and unfasten the basement door.
Auntie has no doubt bolted it.  Then, when she's
gone to bed, we can get in again."

And a few moments later she left him.
Five minutes later she reappeared, followed by
Mrs. Felmore.

"Auntie is going to bed," she said.  "We must
be off, Gerald."

The young man rose, smiled pleasantly, and shook
the deaf woman's hand in farewell.  Then, a few
moments later, the young pair descended the front
steps and left the house.

About ten minutes later, however, they returned
to it, slipping unobserved down the area steps.
Marigold turned the handle of the door, and in the
darkness they both entered the kitchen, where they
waited eagerly, without lighting the gas, and
conversing only in whispers.  Mrs. Felmore had gone
upstairs, and stone-deaf that she was, would hear no
noise below.

She had left the gas turned low in the hall in
readiness for her master's return, retiring fully
satisfied with the appearance and manners of the young
man to whom her niece had that night introduced her.

The pair, waiting below in the darkness, remained
eagerly on the alert.

It was a quarter past ten, and Bernard Boyne
might return at any time.  But each minute which
passed seemed an hour, so anxious and puzzled were
they, and at every noise they held their breath and
waited.

At last footsteps sounded outside—somebody
ascending the stone steps above—and next second
there was a click as a key was put into the latch of
the front door.

"Here he is—at last!" the girl whispered.
"Now we'll watch!"

They watched together—and by doing so learned
some very strange facts.





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.. _`WHAT HAPPENED IN BRIDGE PLACE`:

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   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   WHAT HAPPENED IN BRIDGE PLACE

.. vspace:: 2

Together Marigold and her lover crept up the
kitchen stairs in the darkness, and heard Mr. Boyne
moving about in the front parlour.

They heard him yawn as he threw off his coat,
for the night was sultry, and there were sounds
which showed that he was eating his evening meal.
They heard the loud fizzing as he unscrewed a bottle
of beer, and the noise of a knife and fork upon the
plate, for he had left the door open.

After about ten minutes, for he seemed to eat
his supper hurriedly, he flung off his boots, and in
his socks crept upstairs to Mrs. Felmore's door,
apparently to satisfy himself that she had retired.

"Hadn't we better get down," suggested Durrant,
in a low whisper.  "He may take it into his head to
come down and search here."

"No, he never comes into the kitchen.  So long
as auntie has gone to bed he does not mind.  Let's
wait and watch."

This they did.  After a few moments Mr. Boyne
came down again and walked along the narrow
passage back to his room, satisfied that all was quiet.

He had removed his boots, apparently for some
other purpose than to be able to move about in
silence, for however heavily he trod his old
housekeeper would not hear him.  Perhaps, however, he
feared that her sense of feeling had been so highly
developed that she might have detected the vibration
caused by his footsteps.

He remained for nearly a quarter of an hour in
his room, while the pair stood breathless in the
darkness.

"This is just what happened when I last watched,"
the girl whispered into the ear of the young man
who held her arm affectionately in the darkness.

"I wonder when he'll come out," remarked young
Durrant, highly excited over the curious adventure.
That something remarkable was afoot was proved
by the man's action in ascending the stairs to
ascertain that his housekeeper had retired and would not
disturb his movements.

At last they heard a soft movement, and next
moment, peering over the banisters, they saw a
tall, ghostly form clad from top to toe in a long,
loose white gown advancing to the stairs.

In one hand he carried a glass jug filled with
water, and in the other a plate piled with bread and
other food.

"See!" whispered Durrant.  "There is somebody
upstairs in that locked room.  He's carrying food
and water to his prisoner!"

"Hush!" the girl said softly, and in excitement.
"He may hear you!  He's very quick!"

But the strange occupant of the house had
already ascended out of view, and a few moments
later they heard a click as he put his key into the
Yale lock of the closed room.

They distinctly heard him open the door, and as
distinctly heard him close it again.

"You wait here, Marigold," the young fellow
whispered.  "I'll creep up and see what I can.
Perhaps I shall hear them talking."

"Yes, do," she said.  "But take the greatest care.
Mind the stairs don't creak.  He'll be alarmed in a
moment."

"Leave that to me," he replied, and next moment
he left her side, and slowly ascending the few
remaining steps, gained the hall, and then the foot of
the stairs which led to the first floor.

Though he had not removed his shoes he made
no noise, for he trod slowly and cautiously, never
lifting one foot until the other was down silently.
Thus very slowly he followed the mysterious man in
white.

Hardly had he ascended four steps when an
electric bell sounded, apparently in the locked room.
He halted, and in an instant decided to retreat.
Scarcely before Marigold had realised that the
alarm had sounded, he sprang down, rejoined her,
and whispering:

"Quick!  Let's get down!" he descended into
the dark kitchen.  There, clutching her by the arm,
he felt his way to the door.

Without pausing to listen to the effect of the
alarm upon the man upstairs, the pair passed out
into the area, closed the door after them, hurried up
the steps, and out into the street.

"Let's get away before he sees us!" Gerald
urged, and they both ran light-footed along to the
corner into King Street, where they escaped.

"There's a trap in that house!" Durrant
declared, as after hurrying breathlessly they walked
along in the direction of the Broadway Station.
"Upon one of those stairs is an electrical contact
which gives to the locked room the alarm of an
intruder.  He switched it on from his room below!"

"Yes!" said the girl.  "I feel sure there is."

"And that shows that there's something very
wrong somewhere.  Mr. Boyne has, in secret, a guest
who is in hiding upstairs.  He takes him food and
water every night—as we have seen with our own
eyes.  And, further, he had taken the precaution of
installing an electrical alarm in case anyone followed
him upstairs while he was there with his friend."

"True," said the girl.  "But why does he disguise
himself whenever he goes up there?"

"That we cannot yet tell.  At present it is a
complete mystery."

"And a most uncanny one!"

"It is, I can't see the motive of that disguise."

"Is it not weird?  He was covered from head to
foot in that white cloak, and only those two slits for
his eyes."

"Yes.  And he moved as silently as a shadow."

So the pair conversed until they reached the
Broadway Station, and left by the Underground a few
moments later.

What they had witnessed that night had increased
the mystery a hundredfold.

In the meantime Bernard Boyne had been startled
by the ringing of the bell, yet in the full
knowledge that Mrs. Felmore could hear nothing.  That
secret alarm had, as a matter of fact, been installed
with his own hands about two months before, with
its switch concealed in the upstairs room.

On hearing it, he instantly flung off his white
cloak and dashed headlong down the stairs.

In the hall, however, he halted and burst out
laughing.

"Fool you are, Bernard!" he exclaimed aloud
to himself.  "Yes, you are getting more nervous
every day!"

The reason of this was because close to the front
door sat Mrs. Felmore's black cat, waiting to be let
out for the night.

"Ah, pussy!" he exclaimed.  "So it is you who
ran silently down the stairs and set off the gong, eh?"

And, opening the door, he let out the cat, saying:

"Out you go, Jimmy, and don't do it again."

Then he reascended the stairs to the locked room,
perfectly satisfied with the solution of what a few
moments before had caused him very considerable
alarm.

No intruder would be tolerated in that dingy
house—the house of great mystery.

He carried in his hand a small bottle of meat
extract which he had taken from the sideboard in
the parlour, and was fully satisfied that it was the
cat who had set off the alarm.

As Gerald and Marigold sat side by side in the
train, they could not converse because of the noise,
but at Earl's Court, where they changed, the girl for
Wimbledon Park and her lover bound in the opposite
direction, Marigold halted on the platform, and
said:

"I feel worried about auntie, Gerald.  There's
something wrong in that house.  Don't you think
so?"

"Frankly, I do," was the young man's reply.
"That he sets an alarm when he visits the mysterious
person concealed in that locked room is in itself a
most remarkable feature of the affair, which is one
we must certainly probe to the bottom."

"But Mr. Boyne is such a nice man.  Everyone
speaks so well of him.  In all Hammersmith I don't
think he has a single enemy, save those who are
jealous of his local popularity.  And there are always
such."

"As I've said before, Marigold, the men who are
deep schemers always take care to establish a high
reputation locally.  This Mr. Boyne has, no doubt,
done so with some ulterior motive."

"And that motive we mean to find out," said the
girl decisively.

"We will," he said, in a hard voice.  "I feel
confident that we are on the track of some very
sensational affair."

"Who can be the person who is hiding?"

"Ah! that remains to be seen.  It is evidently
someone who dare not show his face—not only in the
light of day, but even at night."

"But why does Mr. Boyne wear that hideous
robe with slits for the eyes?" asked Marigold,
bewildered, as they walked to the stairs.

"At present, I can't imagine.  But we shall know
the truth very soon, never fear," the young man
replied.  And then, lifting his hat politely, he shook
her hand, and they parted after a very adventurous
evening.

As Gerald Durrant travelled back to his home,
he reflected deeply upon the whole affair.  Though
he had not dared to mention the fact to Marigold, he
was more deeply in love with her than ever.  She
was the most dainty and most beautiful girl he had
ever met.  She was chic to the finger-tips, and
among the many girl clerks he met daily she was
outstanding on account of her refinement, her
modesty, and the sweet expression always upon her
countenance.

Yet the problem which she had put forward to
him was certainly an inscrutable one.  Boyne, the
highly respectable, hard-working insurance agent,
lived in that dingy and rather stuffy house
surrounded by meagre comfort which, in itself,
betokened modest means.  For every penny Bernard
Boyne gained he worked very hard.  Insurance
agency is not highly-paid, for everything is nowadays
cut to a minimum, while since the war the cost of
living has soared.

Nevertheless, as he sat in the train taking him
westward, he examined the facts.  Boyne employed
as housekeeper a woman who was stone-deaf.  Why?
Was it because the person confined behind that stout
door upstairs sometimes shouted and made noises
which would have attracted the attention of any
person who possessed the sense of hearing?

That this was so he was convinced.  Had it not
been proved by Boyne carrying food to the mysterious
person who was his captive, or who remained in
voluntary concealment?

If the latter, why did he disguise himself each
time he paid him a visit?

No.  Somebody was held there captive against
his will, and the reason of the wearing of that cloak
was in order that the captor should remain unknown
and unidentified.  Truly, there was an element of
sensationalism in the whole affair!

He was, however, determined to get to the bottom
of it.  Marigold had, in her perplexity, consulted
him, and he had given his aid.  Now, having
witnessed what he had, he meant to carry the affair
through, and solve the mystery of Bernard Boyne
and his locked room in Hammersmith.

It occurred to him that perhaps by watching
Boyne's movements he might learn something of
interest.  The unfortunate part of it was that in his
position he was engaged all day, and could never
have any time to devote to the affair till six or seven
o'clock.  Nevertheless, he had made a firm resolve
to discover the reason of that locked room, and the
identity of the person concealed within.

Supposing the person to be some relative who
was insane, or whose personal appearance was too
horrible to be seen in public—and there are all sorts
of human monstrosities living in concealment in
London—then there could be no reason why Boyne
should hide his face when visiting him.  No.  Somebody
was held there, a prisoner in solitary confinement.

He recollected the heavy door, and the light
beneath.  Did they not tell their own tale?

"London contains many mysteries of crime," he
said to himself as he alighted at the station and
strolled home.  "And here is one, I feel sure.  Boyne
is playing some clever game.  Perhaps he seeks to
inherit property belonging to the person whom he
holds in captivity, and whose death may indeed have
been registered!"

Such a case—and more than one—was on record.
Cases of people presumed by the law to be dead, yet
they were still alive, held in confinement by those
who benefited by their money.

Durrant, who had read deeply of the mysteries
of crime, recollected the case of Mrs. Marvin, of
Hounslow; of George Charles Pepper, of Richmond;
or Doctor Heaton, of Curzon Street; the celebrated
case of the sisters Tredgold, and others, all of whom
were concerned in the holding in bondage of those
whose fortunes they secured.

His inclination led him to go direct to Scotland
Yard, and reveal what he had heard and seen, but
Marigold had urged him to refrain from doing so
until they had investigated further.  She held
Mr. Boyne in such high esteem, and her aunt held such
a comfortable post, that she was most reluctant to
put any suspicions before the police.  It was in
accordance with the girl's wishes that he did not go
straight to the Criminal Investigation Department.
Yet he knew too well that the police, who discover
so many "mare's nests" daily, are slow to move
until a tragedy occurs.  And then it is often too
late, for the perpetrators of the crime have vanished,
either abroad, or into one or other of the criminal
bolt-holes which are ever open to those who know.

The public never realise that in the great
underworld of London there are people who make a
living—and a very good one, too—by successfully
concealing for weeks, months, nay, years, those for
whom the emissaries of Scotland Yard are in search.
The clever criminal knows of these burrows where
he can live quite cosily, and surrounded by comforts,
defying all police inquiries until the hue and cry has
died down, and then as a stoker-fireman, or in some
menial capacity, he gets abroad a free man—free to
enjoy the proceeds of his crimes.

At first Gerald Durrant had suspected Bernard
Boyne to be one of those obliging persons who offer
safe asylum to criminals, but the wearing of that
ghostly cloak by the owner of the house dispelled
any such theory.

No.  As he entered the house, after that exciting
evening, he was firmly convinced that Boyne held
somebody—man or woman—in captivity.

And he intended, at all hazards, to learn the truth.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON LOCH LOMOND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   ON LOCH LOMOND

.. vspace:: 2

A bright brilliant day on glorious Loch Lomond,
which, with its wooded islands, is one of the most
picturesque of all the Scottish lakes.

The grey little steamer, which that morning had
left Balloch Pier at the southern end of the loch, was
slowly threading its way through the green islets in
the afternoon sunshine.  Crowded as it always is in
fine weather with visitors from the south, all full of
admiration as at every turn there came into view
fresh aspects of the woods and mountains around
Ben Lomond, standing high and majestic, Ben Vane,
Ben Vorlick, the twin peaks of Ben Cruachan, and
the tent-shaped Ben More.

The silent grandeur of the loch, where in the deep
waters, smooth as glass, the heron fishes undisturbed,
is always impressive.  Even on that unusually
clear autumn day—for mists and rains are more
often than not drifting up and down that twenty-five
miles or so of picturesque water, which is sometimes
as wide as five miles—those who had come up from
Edinburgh or Glasgow to make the trip, stood
open-mouthed at the ever-changing scene as the steamer
wended its way up the loch after leaving the remote
little village of Luss.

Among those on board, seated in a deck-chair and
enjoying the beautiful afternoon, was a well-dressed
woman of middle-age, with auburn hair, and rather
sad-faced, but very well preserved.  Once or twice
her maid, a short, stout little Scotchwoman, whose
speech was that of a Glaswegian, came to wait upon
her, afterwards retiring to another part of the boat.

The lady's eyes were fixed upon the gorgeous
panorama.  Beside her chair was a well-worn
dressing-bag in dark-green cover, which showed that she
was not a mere day traveller, but had come to Loch
Lomond to stay at one of the unpretentious lakeside
hotels, of which there are several at Tarbet and at
Inversnaid.  Though she was greatly enjoying the
scenery, it was not in the least fresh to her.  Indeed,
Mrs. Morrison, of Carsphairn, was an annual visitor
to Loch Lomond, staying a fortnight each year at
the little hotel at Ardlui, a spot which her late
husband had loved so well.

Though an extremely wealthy man, the summer
attractions of Harrogate, Dinard, Aix, or Ostend, had
never appealed to him.  Bluff and hearty, he loved
Loch Lomond in the days of his prosperity just as
when, in his youth, he used to save his coppers to
enable him to have a one-day trip from Glasgow each
summer—red-letter days in his otherwise grey
workaday life.

It had, indeed, been in his mind to build a fine
summer residence on the shore of the loch at Ardlui,
and he had actually bought the site—one that gave a
magnificent view of Ben Lomond and a wide-reaching
expanse of the lake—when a sudden illness cut
him off, and his wife was left to mourn his loss.

Augusta Morrison was thinking of the last
occasion when she and her devoted husband had come
for the annual fortnight at Ardlui, and of how daily
they walked to the site on the mountain-side where
their new home was to be.

That was four years ago.  Yet each year she never
failed to pay her pilgrimage to the spot which they
both so loved.

A young couple, evidently Londoners, seated
beside her, had been reading aloud from a guide
book the legend of the rocky Craig Royston, where
there is a cave known locally as "Rob Roy's Prison,"
and then, full of admiration, had turned to the
splendid view afforded of the mountains around
Arrochar.

Just then the steamer slackened, and after some
shouting from the captain, was moored to the pier
at Inversnaid, the little loch-side village with its
wooded mountains beyond.  There most of the
passengers left the boat to cross by coach or motor
that ridge which lies between Loch Lomond and
Loch Katrine, Inversnaid being one of the points of
departure from Loch Lomond to the Trossachs.
Therefore, when the boat went on to the head of the
loch at Ardlui, there remained but few passengers.

At last the steamer drew up at the quaint little
landing-stage, the postal official brought out the last
bag of mail for delivery, and, Mrs. Morrison's maid
collecting up all their belongings, they both waited
until the paddles had ceased to revolve.

Scarcely had the widow risen from her chair, when
a big, burly Scot presented himself, and, touching
his cap, respectfully bade the lady welcome.

"Ah! so you're here still, McIntyre!" remarked
the widow pleasantly.

"Yes, Mistress Morrison, David McIntyre never
leaves Ardlui," laughed the man, who acted as porter,
boots, and general factotum to the Tillychewan Arms
Hotel.

Mistress and maid walked ashore, and were very
soon at the little hotel facing the loch, a very cosy,
unpretentious place, where one could get excellent
food, and go mountaineering and fishing to one's
heart's content.

On the threshold Mrs. Morrison was greeted
enthusiastically by the proprietor's wife, a stout,
homely woman, and very soon the widow from
Kirkcudbrightshire and her maid were installed in the
rooms she annually occupied, both of which gave
magnificent views of water and mountains.

At Ardlui the daily steamer waits for an hour
and a half, and then returns to Balloch, where the
express for Glasgow is waiting.  Therefore, when the
siren sounded and the boat left on its return journey,
the little place relapsed into its lethargy of rural
solitude and remoteness from the stress of the
southern world.

The hotel, half covered with creeper, stood in its
well-kept garden, which ran down to the lake.  It
was not quite full of visitors.  The guests, however,
were all of the better class, mostly Glasgow
merchants and their wives, with a couple of families
from London, and the usual youthful, well-dressed
idler which one finds in every hotel the world over.

At dinner, as Mrs. Morrison sat alone in a corner
by the window overlooking the loch, now crimson
in the sunset, she glanced around, but none of her
fellow-visitors appeared to be very interesting.  The
only person who attracted her was one woman who,
seated alone, was apparently taking no interest in
anyone, for she had propped up before her the
*Glasgow Herald*, which had just arrived by the
steamer, and was absorbed in it.

Augusta Morrison raised her eyes again, and saw
that the woman was exceedingly well, though very
quietly, dressed, while there was about her a
distinct air of refinement.  She also noticed that she
possessed very remarkable hair.

Suddenly the eyes of the two women met, and the
widow, a little confused for she had been staring hard,
turned to look out of the window.

An hour later, when the well-dressed woman had
gone out for an after-dinner stroll in the direction of
the landing-stage, Mrs. Morrison inquired her name
of the proprietor's wife.

"Oh!" replied the other.  "She's a very nice
lady from London.  She has never been up here
before.  She's a Mrs. Pollen."

Then, referring to the visitors' book, she added:
"She lives in Upper Brook Street, London.  She
came here about four days ago."

"Is she making a long stay?"

"She took her rooms for a fortnight," was the
woman's reply.  "She seems quite nice," she added.

Mrs. Morrison, of Carsphairn, agreed, and then,
getting a wrap, went out into the garden where
several of the other visitors were sitting on the
verandah, as the dull red afterglow deepened into
twilight.

With one of the women she got into conversation,
and, taking the empty chair next to her,
remained there chatting for nearly an hour.  Then,
just as darkness was falling, Mrs. Pollen, in a short
skirt and carrying a little ash walking-stick,
re-entered the garden and sank into a seat in the corner
to rest.

Next morning after breakfast—the usual Scotch
breakfast with cold grouse and scones—Mrs. Morrison
again strolled out into the sunlit garden after
Mrs. Pollen, and broke the ice.

At first Mrs. Pollen preserved a somewhat
dignified attitude.  She spoke in her best Mayfair
manner, and it was apparent that she considered
herself socially superior to the widow, who, by her
speech, was so palpably Scotch.

"No," said Ena, "I have never been in Scotland
before.  I find it most delightful up here, but rather
dull when one is alone, as I am."

"I, too, am alone, except for my maid," replied
the widow.  "But I love this place.  It is so quiet
and out of the world.  Besides, the scenery is as
grand as any in Scotland.  I'm Scottish, and I've
travelled the whole country through with my
husband.  He was always enchanted with Ardlui.
Indeed," she added, "we bought a site for a home
out here at the back—where one has a lovely
view—but unfortunately he died before he gave the order
to build the place."

"How very unfortunate," said Ena Pollen, with
quick sympathy, and in pretence that she knew
nothing whatever of her fellow-guest's identity, or
of her past, whereas she knew every fact of importance
concerning her.  "I live in London, and though
I travel a good deal, mostly on the Continent or in
Egypt, I must say that I think Loch Lomond really
beautiful.  I took a long ramble by the lochside
yesterday afternoon, and found it most enjoyable."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Morrison.  "You must take the
trip over to Stronachlachar and up Katrine.  It is
quite pretty, but not so grand as this.  Besides, there
are always too many trippers in the Trossachs.  But
while you are here you must really go across and
see Ellen's Isle."

And so the pair, seated in the garden with the
sunlit waters at their feet, gossiped on, and quickly
became good friends.

That same evening, indeed, Mrs. Morrison
invited the lady from London up to her sitting-room to
take coffee after dinner, and there they sat gossiping
and smoking cigarettes until it was time to retire.

When Ena Pollen gained her room she locked the
door, and, flinging herself into a small easy chair,
exclaimed beneath her breath:

"Thank Heaven!  That's over!  The first few
hours when one cultivates a friendship are always full
of pitfalls.  A word in the wrong place, and the
person one seeks to know may instantly conceive a
strong dislike.  In this case, however, the woman
has approached me.  It was a good job I got up here
first."

Ena Pollen was much fatigued by the recent rapid
journeys to and fro to Scotland, over to Paris and
back, and then north again to Loch Lomond.  She
was, however, a cosmopolitan, and had travelled very
extensively ever since she had been left a widow ten
years earlier.  Her husband had been a solicitor,
whose practice was in Bedford Row, but after his
death she had embarked upon an adventurous career
which had culminated in her association with Bernard
Boyne and his wife.

That association had brought her considerable
wealth—sufficient, indeed, to allow her, through
payments from Boyne and his wife, to live in
an expensive flat and indulge in jewellery, furs,
smart frocks, and all that appealed to her natural
vanity.

That evening, however, she felt worn out.  The
strain of ingratiating herself with Mrs. Morrison of
Carsphairn, whom she found to be an exceedingly
shrewd woman, had been considerable, and this,
combined with the fact that she had taken a long walk
that afternoon, had utterly fagged her.

From a tiny silver tube with a cap upon it, which
she took from her dressing-case, she extracted a single
little white tabloid, and swallowed it.

"I wonder—I wonder if we shall really be
successful?" she murmured to herself.  "There must
be no slip this time—no recurrence of that unfortunate
contretemps in the Martin affair.  Phew!  That was
a narrow shave.  I was in Melun only just in time.
A few days later, and all chance of dispelling
suspicion would have gone!"

She reflected how on more than one occasion they
had sailed very near the wind—far too near to be
pleasant—and how they had narrowly escaped a closer
inquiry.  Lilla, however, was always fearless, even
when her husband expressed doubts.  It was she,
indeed, who was the moving spirit of the whole
affair, for she went about in her circle of society with
her eyes and ears ever open until she saw an
opportunity to put into motion that deadly machinery
which, worked with such subtle cunning, never failed
to increase their bank balance.

She stood at her window as the full moon rose
over the loch, transforming the scene into a veritable
fairyland, and here she remained in deep reflection.
She was contemplating the course she should pursue
when she met Mrs. Morrison on the morrow.  Already
they had become friends, the widow from
Kirkcudbrightshire being, of course, in entire ignorance that
the pleasant woman from London had come to Ardlui
for the sole purpose of making her acquaintance.
Ena Pollen was possessed of a cunning that few
women possess unless they are adventuresses.  She
saw that she must allow this Mrs. Morrison to seek her
society.  Already she realised that the Scotch widow
had been greatly attracted by her conversation; hence
she decided that on the morrow she must not be too
eager to meet and chat with her.

She was in no mood for sleep, therefore she pulled
down the blind, and seating herself at a little table
in the room, penned a letter which she addressed to
"B. Braybourne, Esquire, 93, Pont Street, London,"
and in the course of which she wrote:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Things are going even better than I expected.
Mrs. M., who made the first advance, is extremely
affable to me.  I hope that within a week or ten days
I can be back in London.  Mrs. M., on leaving here,
is going to Brighton to visit a niece, so I may see
something of her.  Do not write here, as I may be
leaving any day.  I have had a letter from Emery.
It was sent to Upper Brook Street, and fortunately
enclosed to me in an envelope.  It would have been
unfortunate if it had come here addressed to Mrs. M.!
Would it not?  But do not be alarmed!  I have given
instructions that no letters are to be forwarded in
future.*"

.. vspace:: 2

Next day after breakfast she went out to the post-box
and there dropped in the letter, so that it would
leave by the afternoon steamer for the south.  And
after she took a long walk alone along the loch-side,
under Ben Voirlich, as far as the little village of
Inveruglas, and thence up the Inveruglas water, a
pretty stream which comes rushing down through
the woods from Loch Sloy.  And there in the cool
shade she at last sat down upon a moss-grown boulder
and took out a book and read.

She was playing a waiting game, and one that
succeeded, for as she rose from her table after lunch,
Mrs. Morrison came up to her, saying:

"Why, wherever have you been, Mrs. Pollen?
I've been seeking everywhere for you."

"Have you?" she asked quite innocently.  "I've
been for a walk to the Inveruglas water."

"Oh!  Isn't it delightful there in the woods?"
said the widow.  "I've been there often.  We used
to go and picnic there sometimes—right on up Loch
Sloy.  It is very grand and lonely up there, and
the view in all directions is superb."

"I've only been in the woods at the bottom of
the mountain," the Red Widow replied.

"Well, I was going to ask you whether, if you
haven't anything better to do, you would drive with
me up Glen Falloch to Crianlarich," said
Mrs. Morrison.

"I shall be most delighted," replied Ena.  "I'm
sure it is awfully good of you."

"Well, as we are both alone, it will be a pleasure
for me to have your company," Mrs. Morrison assured her.

Therefore at three o'clock they left in a carriage
which took them away into the picturesque glen for
six miles or so, past the little village of Inverarnan,
until they reached that pleasant little spot
Crianlarich, sheltering beneath the high Ben More at
the head of the narrow Glen Dochart, with Loch Fay
beyond.

They wandered about the heather gossiping on
all sorts of subjects, the Red Widow telling her a
number of purely fictitious stories about herself and
her travels, while Mrs. Morrison told her much about
the happiness of her own married life.

"I have never cared to enter society because, while
my husband lived, it never attracted me," she said,
as they sat together upon a rock among the heather
whence they had a magnificent view up Glen Dochart.
"My husband hated it.  He was a self-made man.  A
baronetcy was offered him, but he refused it.  He
did not agree with the system whereby donations to
party funds makes an honest man a pinchbeck
gentleman."

Ena laughed.

"True!" she declared.  "I admire Mr. Morrison
for his outspokenness."

"Well, that is why I never entered society,"
Mrs. Morrison said, with a sigh.

"But why don't you see a little more of life?"
Ena suggested.  "You appear, from what you say,
to be buried alive at Carsphairn!"

"I see but very few people, but I take a great
interest in the estate, and I have a few shooting
parties—mostly friends of my late husband."

"Why not come to London for a month or so?
Go to the theatres and restaurants, and have an
enjoyable time?  I do, and I find that I'm amused
and meet many interesting people.  You are going
to Brighton.  Why not remain in London for a bit
after your visit there?" the Red Widow suggested.
"I know a good many people, and I think you would
have a nice time.  Besides, you would do shopping
also.  Paris and London are the only places where
one can buy anything decent to wear nowadays."

"You are really very good, Mrs. Pollen, to offer
to entertain me in London," she declared.  "Of
course, I have other engagements, but——"

"Oh, but those can be broken.  If you are going to
Brighton, make a stay in London on your return.
I live in Upper Brook Street.  Do you know it?"

"Oh yes.  I once, long ago, had a friend who
lived there.  I know it quite well."

"I have only a small flat, otherwise I would offer
you hospitality."

"Oh—no," said the widow.  "I can easily stay
at the Carlton, the Ritz, or somewhere."

"Then think it over," said the pleasant woman
from London.

"Yes, I will," replied the other.  "We have
many things in common, I believe, and I am sure
that we shall be good friends."

"I'm delighted to hear that your thoughts
coincide with my own.  I make very few new
acquaintances; I have so many old friends."

"And I make none.  Not that I'm at all exclusive,
I hope.  But the majority of women I meet I find
too shallow and frivolous, and they don't attract me."

"Then I consider myself highly honoured!"
laughed Ena, as the pair rose to walk back to the
Crianlarich Hotel to tea.

And while Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn, ignorant
of what was in progress, believed that she really had
found a delightful friend—a woman after her own
heart—the Red Widow smiled within herself, highly
gratified at her success.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A GENTLEMAN NAMED GREIG`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   A GENTLEMAN NAMED GREIG

.. vspace:: 2

The days passed pleasantly enough at Ardlui.
Mrs. Morrison and her newly-found friend usually went
walking or driving together over the heather-clad
mountains, or along the loch-side, so remotely
picturesque and silent.

One day she received an offer—through a firm of
estate-agents in Edinburgh—from a well-known
cotton-spinner in Oldham to rent Carsphairn furnished
for a year.  It was a most tempting offer, and
Mrs. Morrison showed the letter to her friend.

"If I were you, I would accept it," Mrs. Pollen
urged.  "It would do you good to travel, to see
London life a little, and go over to Paris and to Nice
in winter.  I could not vegetate always on a Scottish
estate, much as I love the country."

"I confess I feel half inclined to accept.  Lately
I have felt very lonely and dull at Carsphairn, and
now with winter in front of us I should, I agree,
be far more happy with a little amusement."

"Of course," said Ena, as they were walking
together near the hotel.  "You are going to Edinburgh
next week, so I would write to the agents and
say that you will call upon them."

"Very well, I will," said Mrs. Morrison.  "You
are coming to Edinburgh, too, aren't you?"

"Just for a couple of days before I return to
London."

"Then we will travel together, and stay at the
Caledonian," said Augusta Morrison.

And so it was agreed.

That Ena had successfully ingratiated herself with
Mrs. Morrison was proved by a letter she wrote that
day to her niece at Brighton, in which she said:

.. vspace:: 2

"*I have met an exceedingly nice woman here—a
Mrs. Pollen, who lives in Upper Brook Street,
London.  I will ask her down to Brighton while I
am with you.  She has persuaded me to spend a
little time in London after I leave you, and I think
the change will do me good.  I am contemplating
letting Carsphairn furnished for a year, and spending
the winter first on the Riviera, and later in Egypt.
I make few friends, as you know, but I am sure you
will like Mrs. Pollen.  She is very often at the
Metropole, at Brighton.  Next week we go to
Edinburgh together, and after I have done my business
there I shall come straight to you.*"

.. vspace:: 2

Ena, with her innate cunning, had been quick to
realise the open friendship which her companion had
extended towards her.  This somewhat surprised her,
for a woman is the enemy of every other woman.
Few women ever see beauty or good qualities in
another.

Only a few days before Ena went north, she was
discussing the point with Lilla Braybourne over tea
in the latter's drawing-room.

"Women see in every other female thing a
potential rival, my dear Lilla," she had said.  "That
is what makes my task so hard.  Every woman
defends herself against every other woman, fully
confident that the hand of the female world is raised
against her."

"I think I agree," was Lilla's reply.  "I've hardly
ever known a woman to admire the good looks of
another of her sex.  Curious, isn't it?  But it's quite
true what you say.  Pussies lap tea and scandal
everywhere, and even a female saint too often uses
her crown of thorns to scratch."

"Yes," laughed the handsome adventuress.  "I
heard it said the other day that to the woman of
thirty the girl of eighteen is a crime, and that to-day's
fashion is to look sixteen if you're sixty, and to
collar your daughter's lovers if they are not wide
awake enough to prevent you.  That's what makes
it so hard for me."

"Few women can attract women, Ena.  You
are one of them.  You deserve the O.B.E. for it."

"But it is a most difficult and often dangerous
undertaking," she declared; "and, after all, the
O.B.E. has been given for less."

By the least lapse of the tongue or a too eager
appearance to scrape up an acquaintanceship would,
Ena knew, alienate Mrs. Morrison for ever.  The
widow's reverence for her departed husband was the
saving clause.  She had professed deep sympathy,
and in the delightful fiction she had told about her
own life and "dear Peter," her late husband, she had
attracted Augusta as one of the few women who
were womanly.

Who was it said that modern love starts in
Heaven and ends in the Sunday newspaper?  Ena's
philosophy was always amusing.  She scoffed at
love, at life, at beauty, at everything.  Indeed, on
that very day as she walked with Mrs. Morrison
she had caused her to laugh heartily by referring
to some woman friend of hers who lived at Surbiton
as "one of those women who shine with virtue and
the cheapest sort of complexion soap."

Ena Pollen had a caustic tongue as far as her own
sex was concerned, yet she could assume such a
suave, sweet manner towards women as entirely to
disarm them.

It was so in Mrs. Morrison's case.  As the warm,
delightful days went on, they were inseparable,
exchanging intimate details of their own careers, and
fast becoming firm friends.

The arrival of the steamer from Balloch each
afternoon was the chief excitement, and by it visitors
to the hotel came and left.

One afternoon the steamer brought a short,
round-faced little man, very well-dressed, whose
speech showed that he came from Glasgow.  He had
a suit-case with him, and took the one room which
happened to be disengaged, giving the name of
John Greig.  He was an alert-looking business
man, probably a Glasgow merchant out for a few
days' relaxation from the eternal bustle of
Sauchiehall Street.

He sat alone at dinner, and once or twice glanced
in the direction of the two ladies who sat together in
the window, for Mrs. Morrison had now joined
Mrs. Pollen.  Both were better dressed than the other
visitors, especially Ena, who wore a semi-evening
frock and a jade-coloured velvet band in her red
hair.

After dinner the visitor strolled alone in the
garden until he found a man to chat with, the pair
sitting smoking in the moonlight until it became
time to retire.

When John Greig reached his room he flung himself
into a chair, and beneath his breath, remarked:

"By Jove!  She's a handsome woman, too!  But
she's not Joan Eastlake.  That's my belief.
Nevertheless, now I'm here, I may as well make quite
certain."

And he took out a final cigarette from his case
and smoked it reflectively before he turned in.

Next day he was about early at the loch-side, and
though he contrived to arouse no suspicion in the
minds of either those connected with the hotel or
any of his fellow-visitors, he kept casual observation
upon the pair.  Now and then he would accidentally
be so close in their vicinity as to be able to overhear
scraps of their conversation.  Yet so cleverly did
he do this, and so utterly uninterested did he appear
to be, that even Ena, who was ever suspicious of
eavesdroppers and persons watching, failed to realise
the intense interest which she had evoked in the little
round-faced man.

The following day Ena accompanied her friend
on a trip across to Loch Katrine, but the stranger
idled about the hotel and wrote letters.  After lunch,
however, at the hour when the small establishment
was quietest, the curiosity of anyone watching him
would certainly have been aroused.  His actions were
truly a little peculiar.

At about three o'clock that afternoon, having
ascertained that none of the servants were about,
he slipped silently to Mrs. Pollen's bedroom, the
door of which was unlocked, and, entering quickly,
closed the door after him.  Then, walking straight
to a big dressing-case which lay upon a chair
near the window, he took out a bunch of keys
and tried one after the other in an effort to
open it.

He failed, none of the keys would fit.

"If I force it she'll suspect," he murmured.  "No,
I must give it up for the present—curse it!"

Then he made a tour of the room, opened the
wardrobe, and examined the contents of several
drawers, but though some expensive jewellery was
there, he cast it aside in contempt.

Mr. Greig did not want jewels.  It was evident
that he was in search of something else far more
interesting.  But that lock upon the dressing-case
was an unusually good one, and had defied all his
many keys.

There was but one course to pursue, and that
was to retreat to his own room, which he did in
great disappointment and chagrin.

That evening he watched the two women on their
return.  His movements were those of a practised
watcher.  He was unobtrusive, disinterested in
everything save the picturesque surroundings, and behaved
as though he had no interest whatever in any person
in the hotel.

That evening, while in the garden after dinner,
he found himself sitting on a seat beside
Mrs. Morrison, and ventured to address a remark to her
regarding the glorious sunset.

What more natural than in a few moments Ena
and her friend were chatting affably with the new-comer.

"This is my first visit to Scotland," Ena declared,
though it was a falsehood, "and I'm delighted with
it.  My views—those of a Londoner—have entirely
altered concerning Scotland and the Scottish people.
I don't agree now with the ridicule cast upon them."

"I'm very glad of that," declared Mr. Greig.
"In the south you don't really understand us, I
think.  And perhaps we here don't quite understand
you.  National prejudices are very hard to break down."

"They are.  But you see the majority of the
English never come north.  They view the Scottish
people by the ridicule cast upon them by performers
on our music-halls.  It is unfortunate, but it is a
fact."

"Never mind," laughed the pleasant-faced man
from Glasgow.  "Our national pride is never hurt
by those amblers on the stage who wax fat upon
the profits of their mimicry.  We only laugh at it up
here, I assure you," he declared to Mrs. Pollen.

The conversation drifted naturally to the fact that
Mrs. Morrison told him her name, which was
Scottish, and the identity of her late husband, so
well known in Glasgow.

"Oh!  I knew your husband quite well, Mrs. Morrison,"
declared John Greig, for no shrewder
or more well-informed person was there between the
Lowlands and Cromarty.  "I knew him twenty years
ago.  Do you recollect Mr. Buchanan, who had an
office in St. Vincent Street, Glasgow, and with whom
he went into partnership?  Mr. Buchanan died about
four years ago.  I went to visit him once at that
beautiful house of his on Loch Rannoch."

"Then you knew Mr. Buchanan!" cried Mrs. Morrison.
"He was a dear fellow.  My husband was
devoted to him.  Together they built up the works."

"I know.  Everyone in commercial circles in
Glasgow knows how closely they worked together,
and, Mrs. Morrison, I may tell you that not a worker
on the Clyde has any but good words for your
husband and his partner.  The conditions of work in
your husband's place at Govan were always ideal.
We hear much of labour trouble in these post-bellum
days, but if all works were like your husband's
there would be little to grumble at."

"It is awfully good of you to pay such a tribute
to my husband's regard for his employees," said
Mrs. Morrison, much gratified.  "He and I often
discussed their welfare, and I always agreed with
him that labour should be duly paid and there should
be no sweating.  We have Socialist propaganda on
the Clyde to-day, but is it at all astonishing in view
of the high prices, of Government muddle and waste,
and the advancement into society by the King's
favour in the shape of 'honours' of bare-faced
swindlers and those who escape under the more
euphonious name of profiteers?"

"Ah!  I'm glad that you have realised the deadly
peril of Britain, Mrs. Morrison," Greig said.  "As
a business man in Glasgow—I am an exporter to the
East—I know much of what is transpiring among
the Socialists, and I know the deadly peril of Britain
to-day."

The fact that Greig had known not only her
husband but his partner, Buchanan, appealed to
Mrs. Morrison, with the result that he had frequent chats
with her, and incidentally with her friend, Ena
Pollen, whose belongings he had so carefully
scrutinised in her absence.

The man from Glasgow, with his round, merry,
well-shaven face, a countenance of prosperity, was
a typical man of business, and he appealed to old
Morrison's widow as a very nice man.

With her estimate Ena, any suspicion utterly
disarmed, entirely agreed.

Pleasant, humorous, and careless in his relaxation
from money-making in grim and grimy Glasgow,
John Greig was an excellent fellow on holiday.  His
estimate of women—for he was a bachelor—coincided
entirely with that of Ena Pollen.

To be frank, he had, in the course of conversation,
gauged her views regarding her own sex, and
he at once sought to cultivate her acquaintance upon
her line of thought.

"Of course," she said next morning, as he found
himself gossiping with her after breakfast, "woman
ought not to work at all.  No man really likes a
woman who works for him.  Work isn't woman's
natural element, though trouble is.  Work is an
odious word to women."

"Really, Mrs. Pollen, your philosophy is quite
upon that of my own thinking," laughed Greig.
"Once a man I know declared to me that to girls
business life would be a dull existence if it were not
for its sly opening for an illicit romance."

"One woman writer has said, and with much
truth, that petticoats, like time, were made for slaves,
and that there is more virtue in a single pair of
trousers than there is in a multitude of skirts,"
laughed Ena.

"True.  Was it not the same lady author who
told us that the wrong part of wrong-doing is being
found out?"

"Ah! yes.  And the same feminine philosopher
went farther," Ena said.  "She declared that the
woman who thinks it wicked to buy silk petticoats
and luxurious 'undies'—'because no one sees
them'—is a fool; but the hedonist who frankly revels
in the feel and *frou-frou* of silk and *crêpe de chine*
and mysterious lace things is as wise as Eve, who
wore leaves rather than nothing, and made a
tantalising mystery of herself out of the poor
resources at her command."

The man from Glasgow laughed immoderately.
"Really," he remarked, "you have no great
admiration of your own sex, Mrs. Pollen."

"No, I have not," declared the Red Widow
frankly, as they both halted and leaned over a gate
which gave entrance to a great green meadow beyond
which was the edge of the loch, the water of which
lay like a mirror in the morning sunlight.

Up there, far removed from the life and bustle
of the outer world, with all its political bickerings
and its labour troubles, life was very enjoyable, and
the two women who had become so friendly had
quickly discovered in John Greig a man whose ideas
corresponded exactly with their own—a man who had
formed distinct views upon life, and who was not
afraid to admit them.

At last came the afternoon of their departure for
Edinburgh.  They bade Mr. Greig farewell on the
Pier just before the steamer started for Balloch.

Then, going on board, they waved him a farewell
as the paddles began to revolve, sending out long
ripples over the glassy surface of the loch.

He raised his hat with a merry laugh, but as he
did so, he remarked beneath his breath:

"After all—I'm not sure, *even now*!"





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.. _`MORE MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES`:

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   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   MORE MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES

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"Let's pull up here; it's so delightfully shady."

Marigold Ramsay, who spoke, lay back among
the crimson cushions of the punt, with her eyes fixed
upon the sky.

She loved the river.  That Sunday afternoon was
perfect, and she was enjoying the day on the river
after a week's hard work in the bank.

Gerald, who was an expert with the punt-pole,
was taking her up that pretty reach of the Thames
which winds between Shepperton and Walton,
with the long rows of poplars fringing the river
bank.

They had lunched at the little riverside inn at
Halliford, and were now making their way slowly
up-stream.  Gerald, in flannels, with coat off and
sleeves upturned, placing his pole and withdrawing
it without any apparent effort.

Since that adventurous night at Bridge Place they
had become even closer friends.  No day passed but
they met.  The previous two Sundays Durrant had
spent with her, the first at Dorking, where they had
wandered over Leith Hill and along the Surrey lanes,
and the next Sunday at Brighton.  This, the third
Sunday, they had decided to spend together on the
Thames.

As they were passing beneath a long row of trees
which overhung the water, the girl, who was in white,
raised herself from her couch of cushions and
suggested that they should tie up the punt there.

"Certainly," he replied, and a few moments later
he had secured the punt to a tree root, and, sitting
down to rest, he lit his pipe.

"Do you know, Gerald, I've been thinking again
about Mr. Boyne," she said.  "I can't get the man
out of my mind."

"Well, to tell the truth, Marigold, neither can
I," replied the young man.  "Ever since that night
at Hammersmith I've been trying in vain to solve
the mystery."

"About the person concealed upstairs," remarked
the blue-eyed girl reflectively.  "Yes, it's most
curious."

"It's more than curious," her companion declared.
"Though I haven't mentioned it to you, I've watched
the house for several nights, but I must admit that
I've seen nothing at all suspicious."

"Oh!  Then you've been on the watch!" she
cried excitedly.

"Yes, on four occasions, and all to no purpose.
Last Friday I waited from nine o'clock till one in
the morning, and got wet through.  He returned
about ten, but did not come out again."

"He was upstairs with his secret friend, I
suppose," said the girl.

"No doubt.  Whoever may be confined there
could not exist without seeing a human face and
conversing with him, even for five minutes each day,
or he would certainly go mad," said Gerald.  "You
remember I said that Italians, who have abolished
capital punishment for murder, have substituted
solitary confinement.  It is far more terrible.  They
confine the assassin in a cell in silence, without sight
of a human face.  Their food is placed upon a turntable
which revolves into the cell, so that the prisoner
never sees a face.  Such torture was invented long
ago in the Bastille, and in every case it drives the
guilty one raving mad within five years."

"How horrible!" cried the girl.

"I admit it is, but surely the punishment is far
greater than that of hanging, or even the guillotine.
Both are instantaneous, yet in Italy the criminal
suffers all the tortures of Dante's Inferno—and
deservedly so."

"Then you saw nothing?" asked Marigold.

"I fancied a lot, but I saw really nothing to
increase my suspicions.  One thing we know—that
he is concealing some person in that locked room.
Now who can the person be?"

"It may be some relative who has done something
very wrong and is afraid of the police," suggested
the girl.

"Agreed.  It may be.  But we have discussed the
matter so many times that I think we should not talk
further—but act," he said.  "We have proved
beyond doubt that Bernard Boyne is a man of
mystery.  Your deaf aunt, a most worthy woman,
acts as his housekeeper.  Why does he retain her?
Merely because she is stone-deaf.  Why does he
want a deaf woman to wait upon him?  Because there
are sometimes noises in the house which would arouse
the curiosity of any who chanced to overhear them."

"We must discover the identity of the person
concealed," remarked the girl with the big blue eyes,
as she lay back lazily among the cushions.

"We must.  At all costs I intend to solve this
mystery.  Marigold," he said, removing his pipe
from his lips and looking straight into her eyes,
"my own belief is that you have discovered some
very strange and startling drama of our complex
London life—one which, when investigated, will
prove to be astounding."

"Do you really think so?" asked the girl,
looking into his handsome face.

"Yes—I do.  Up to the present all our efforts
have been in vain," he said.  "Only one fact has been
established, and that is that there is a prisoner—whether
voluntary or not we cannot tell—in that
creeper-covered house.  We both saw Boyne creep up
with food to him, while I saw his light beneath the
door.  Somebody is living up there in secret.  Is it
a man, or is it a woman?  His eagerness makes me
think that it is a woman.  Who is it?"

"Somebody he is shielding—somebody who has
committed some serious crime, who fears to show his
or her face lest it be recognised by agents of Scotland
Yard."

"Really, Marigold, you are very acute," he
exclaimed.  "We have had so many murder mysteries
since the war, and in all of them the police confess
their utter confusion, that the present situation fills
me with great apprehension."

"I know," she said.  "But why not let us begin
again?  Let us watch the house.  I'll watch one
night, and you watch the next.  Surely we can by
that means discover the truth.  If the place is watched
every night, this man Boyne must, in the end, be
defeated."

"But I thought you liked Boyne?"

"Yes; he has been always very good to me.
Remember that he is the owner of the place, and my
aunt is his housekeeper," replied the girl.

"I quite appreciate your point," said Durrant.
"But if we are to fully delve into the affair we must
not be influenced by the fellow's open heart.  The
greatest criminals of the world have always been those
who have been popular on account of their bonhomie
and generosity."

The girl sat silent, her eyes fixed upon the rushes
slowly waving in the stream.  A motor-launch passed
them, making a high wash against the bank, but
she took no heed.  She was still thinking of that
strange occupant of the house in Bridge Place.

Three times during the past week she had,
indeed, visited her aunt in an endeavour to discover
something more.  Boyne had been out, as usual,
therefore she had been able to examine the place
thoroughly.  She had ascended to that locked room
on each occasion, and had listened there.  Once in
the silence she had heard a distinct movement, a
slight rustling, within.

Yet afterwards, as she had reflected, she
wondered whether it had not been due to her
imagination, or perhaps to a blind flapping at an
open window.  When one is suspicious, it is so easy
to imagine queer circumstances.

"I only wish we could solve the mystery," she
remarked wistfully.  "It worries me.  Auntie seems
quite unconcerned."

"Because she has no suspicion, worthy old soul.
She has no knowledge of Mr. Boyne's nocturnal
visits with food to his friend."

"Why shouldn't we tell her, and then she'll be
on the alert?" suggested the girl.  "She might
discover something."

"She might—but more probably she would be too
eager, and thus put Boyne upon his guard,"
remarked the young fellow.  "No.  We must work
together in strict secrecy if we intend to be successful."

"But who can he possibly be hiding?"

The young man in flannels shrugged his
shoulders, and replied:

"I confess that the problem is getting on my
nerves.  The more I think it over the more
inscrutable it becomes.  Mischief is being worked
somewhere.  Of that I feel confident.  All the actions of
our friend Boyne point to it."

"But that shroud?  Why does he wear it?" asked
Marigold blankly.

"As a disguise, without a doubt.  Perhaps the
person upstairs has been confined there so long that
his mind has already become deranged, as is
inevitable after a long period of solitary incarceration,
and Boyne now takes the precaution of adopting the
simple disguise so that his friend should fail to
identify him.  He may have done his captive some
great injury—or something."

"True; but, if he has, it was not in order to gain.
Bernard Boyne is a comparatively poor man.  My
aunt says that he seems to have only just sufficient
money to make both ends meet."

Gerald Durrant drew a long breath.  Upon his
countenance was an expression of doubt.

"He may pass as a poor man, and yet be rich,"
he remarked.  "It may sound romantic, but there are
many people living in the by-streets of London,
successfully concealed beneath assumed names and
unsuspected by their neighbours, who for years have
lived a life of penury though they are really well off.
And their motive is, for some reason or other, to
cut themselves adrift from friends in their own
sphere.  Indeed, it is a well known fact that in the
last days of King Edward an ex-Cabinet Minister
lived for several years in seclusion in a meagre
side-street near Kennington Park, as Mr. Benwell, his
real identity never being suspected until, owing to
his sudden death, an inquest was held, and the
police, searching his papers, discovered that he was
immensely wealthy and one of Britain's foremost
statesmen, who was believed to be living in seclusion
in Italy."

"Perhaps Mr. Boyne is some person who has
sought retirement in a similar manner," Marigold
suggested.

"No.  If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Boyne is playing
a very deep and rather dangerous game—how
dangerous I cannot yet discover."

"But you could discover nothing when you
watched—just as I failed to find out any fact," she
said.  "I had no idea you were on the watch."

"I saw you on Tuesday night," he laughed.
"You arrived at the house about half-past eight, and
had a great trouble getting in."

"Were you there?" she cried eagerly.  "I never
dreamed that you were in the vicinity.  Yes, you are
right.  I rang and banged on the door half a
dozen times before I could attract auntie's attention.
She generally leaves the door unlocked in case
anyone should call."

"Boyne returned about twenty minutes after you
had left, but though I watched till midnight, he did
not come out again."

"Couldn't you take a day off one day and follow
him when he goes out in the morning?" the girl
suggested.  "I would do it, but I fear that he'd
recognise me."

"I might.  But I think I may be more successful
at night.  It is very difficult to keep observation upon
a person in broad daylight.  In the darkness it is
much easier."

"Why not try again to-night?" suggested Marigold.
"I'll go with you."

He shook his head.

"Sunday night is a bad night.  We know his
habits on week-days, but he may have gone out all
day to-day," he replied.  "No; to-morrow would be
more likely."

"Then let's both go there to-morrow night, and
if he comes out of the house we'll watch where he
goes."

With this suggestion Gerald agreed, and after she
had smoked the cigarette he handed to her from his
case, they resumed their punting up-stream in the
afternoon sunshine.

Next night they met by appointment at Hammersmith
Broadway station at half-past eight, and after
a consultation, it was arranged that Marigold should
call on her aunt on some pretext, and having
ascertained if Boyne had returned, she would rejoin
Gerald at a spot in King Street.

Hence he lounged about the busy thoroughfare
for a quarter of an hour until she returned with the
news that Boyne had been home since six o'clock,
he having returned unusually early.

"Ah!  That's a good sign," said Gerald.  "He'll
certainly go out again to-night!"

As they strolled together they arranged that
Marigold should loiter near the King Street end of
the street, while Gerald should stand in an entry
near the house which he had used in his previous
observations.

"If you see me pass into King Street, don't follow
me too closely," he urged, "and at all hazards don't
let him see you.  Remember that people who are
engaged in crooked business keep their eyes skinned
and are always full of suspicion."

"I'll take good care he doesn't see me," the girl
answered him.  "Trust me to be discreet."

Then they parted, and for about an hour Marigold
waited in vain for a sight of her lover.  It had now
grown quite dark, and the street lamps in Bridge
Place were none too brilliant.  She was still loitering
in the darkness, full of expectation at every footstep
on the pavement.

At last she again heard footsteps, and a few
moments later recognised Boyne's well-built figure
passing within the zone of lamplight across the way.
He was walking hurriedly in the direction of King
Street, all unconscious that he was being followed.
But a few moments later, with noiseless tread—for
he wore rubber heels to his shoes—Durrant came
along, his eyes searching eagerly for the girl he
loved.

Suddenly he saw her in the shadow, and realised
that she was discreetly following him.

The pair exchanged a few words in the crowded
King Street, and while Gerald hurried on after
Boyne towards the station, the girl followed a little
distance behind.

They saw him buying a ticket at the station and
also purchase a late edition of the evening paper.
Then he descended to the platform of the tube and
took a train going towards Piccadilly.

Gerald and Marigold, who had separated, travelled
on the same train until, on arrival at Knightsbridge,
the man they were watching alighted.  Marigold,
who had been on the alert at each station, saw him
emerge from the next car, while close behind him
was Gerald, with whom, of course, he was
unacquainted.

Together they followed him along Sloane Street
to Pont Street, where he ascended the steps of a
smart-looking red-brick house and opened the door
with a latchkey.

"Now that's curious!" remarked Gerald when he
rejoined the girl.  "Did you notice that he entered
that house yonder as though it were his own home?
I wonder who lives there?"

"We must find out," declared Marigold, highly
excited at having tracked Mr. Boyne so far.

"Yes.  But I shall be compelled to watch the
house and see what happens now," he said.  "I mean
to follow him to-night wherever he goes.  It almost
seems as if he lives here—as well as in Hammersmith!"

"Well—he certainly has a latchkey, and this is
not a street where they take in lodgers."

"No," he said.  "Some of these houses are the
legations of the smaller States of Europe.  Over there
is the Serbian Legation."

"Well, we'll wait in patience," she said.
"Fortunately it's a fine night."

"The last time I watched, last week, it came on
terribly wet about eleven o'clock," he said, "and
I hadn't my mackintosh.  When I started out it
seemed a perfect night.  But just now the weather
is so changeable."

On the darker side of the street by the railings,
the young people idled together, with a watchful eye
upon the long flight of steps which Boyne had
ascended.  Though the blinds were drawn, it was
evident that the comfortable West End house was well
lighted, and it was, no doubt, the residence of someone
of considerable means.  Indeed, it requires a good
income to run a house even in Pont Street in these
post-bellum days.

The traffic had died down.  Few taxis were
passing, for as yet the home-coming pleasure seekers
were not on their way from the theatres.

For half an hour the pair waited in the shadow,
full of eager curiosity.  The movements of the
mystery-man of Hammersmith were, to say the least,
suspicious.

Suddenly, from the basement a young footman
appeared, and hurrying along to the end of the road,
hailed a taxi and brought it to the door.

Then, as they watched, they saw, a few seconds
later, the front door open, and a man in evening dress
descended the steps and entered the taxi.

The light from the open door shone upon his face
as he halted to speak to the servant, and then, to
their amazement, they recognised the man to be
Bernard Boyne.

His chameleon-like change staggered them both
for a second, but Gerald, ever quick to act,
whispered:

"Go home, Marigold.  This is very funny.  I'll
try to follow," and a moment later he had sped away
noiselessly into the darkness.

The fact was that his quick eyes had espied a
taxi which at that moment had driven up on a stand
a little farther down, and without delay he told
the man that he wanted him to follow the taxi in
front, and that he would give him treble fare for
doing so.

"Right y'are, sir!" replied the young Cockney
driver, who instantly entered into the spirit of the
chase, and already his cab was on the move as Boyne
left.

Gerald saw Marigold standing watching the
departure, and knowing that she would make the
best of her way to Wimbledon, kept his eyes upon
the taxi, which was soon out into Knightsbridge,
going in the direction of Hyde Park Corner.

Why Boyne, the humble collector of insurance
premiums, should possess a latchkey to a house in
Pont Street, and emerge from there dressed in
evening clothes as a gentleman of means, sorely puzzled
Gerald Durrant.

He felt instinctively that he was on the track
of some very remarkable sequence of events.  This
man who disguised himself every night before he
took food and drink up to his imprisoned friend,
evidently lived a double life.  In Pont Street he was
a rich man, while in Hammersmith he was poor.

One point of satisfaction was that he was following
the unsuspecting man, and would at least know
his destination, even if that night he failed to discover
the object of his visit.

That he was in a hurry was apparent.  He seemed
to have spoken excitedly to the young footman—who
appeared to be a foreigner—before stepping into the
taxi.

Up Park Lane they went, until suddenly the taxi
conveying the man of mystery pulled up before a
house in Upper Brook Street, while the vehicle in
which Gerald had followed passed on for some
distance before it stopped.

"'E's gone in that 'ouse, sir," said the taxi-man
in a low voice.

"Yes, so I see.  He may not be long.  I'll wait,"
and he stepped out and strolled a little way in the
opposite direction.  Meanwhile Boyne had paid his
man, who had turned his cab and left.

The house into which Boyne had disappeared was
a block of flats, for as he passed he had caught a
glimpse of the uniformed porter who had saluted him
and followed him to the lift.

The mystery was thereby greatly increased,
though many more startling circumstances were yet
to be encountered.

Gerald Durrant idled there in the vicinity of the
taxi, little dreaming into what a labyrinth of doubt
and mystery he had now been drawn.





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.. _`SPREADING THE NET`:

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   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   SPREADING THE NET

.. vspace:: 2

Gerald Durrant remained outside the house in
Upper Brook Street for more than half an hour.
Much puzzled, he stood in a doorway opposite the
block of flats into which Boyne had gone.

Marigold was on her way back to Wimbledon
Park, and that night he intended to probe the
mystery farther.

He waited, and still waited.  A neighbouring
clock struck the hours.  The hall-porter at one o'clock
closed the door and switched off the lights, yet
Gerald still waited for the insurance agent of
Hammersmith to emerge.

That he was known to the hall-porter was
apparent, for the man had saluted him.  It was
strange, to say the least, that the man who was
compelled to scrape for a living in Hammersmith should
be guest in a fashionable flat in Upper Brook Street.

Bernard Boyne was certainly a man of mystery,
for not only did he possess the latchkey of the smart
house in Pont Street, but he was also known at that
block of expensive flats.

The young fellow lit a fresh cigarette and,
leaning against the deep portico of the house opposite,
possessed himself in patience.  Time went on.  A
police constable passed and repassed, but did not
notice him in the shadow, for he hid his cigarette.
All the windows of the great building he was
watching were in darkness.  It was evident now that
Boyne would not come out again before morning.

Yet Durrant, with great pertinacity, waited there
through the whole night until, at half-past six, the
hall-porter threw open the outer door, and milkmen,
the postman, and newspaper boys began to arrive in
quick succession.  Without bite or sup Gerald waited
there till half-past ten, when, full of chagrin at being
thus foiled, he was compelled to hurry to his office,
getting a wash and a shave on the way.

At lunch he met Marigold as usual, and told her
of his failure, whereupon she said:

"I have the afternoon off.  I'll go at once and see
my aunt, and ascertain when he got back."

This she did, and when that evening Durrant
arrived home at Ealing he found a wire awaiting him
which told him that when Boyne's housekeeper took
him up his early tea as usual, her master had been in
bed!

Durrant held his breath.  The mystery-man had
some means of exit from Upper Brook Street—a back
way, without a doubt.

But what was the motive of it all?  Why should
he pose as penurious in Hammersmith, and wear
evening clothes in Mayfair?

That night Durrant went again to Upper Brook
Street, and, exploring the rear of the building, found
that there was a servants' entrance to the flats which
led into a mews, and through a back street.  By that
Bernard Boyne had, no doubt, walked out while
Durrant had been keeping his night vigil.

This fact further impressed both Marigold and
her lover that Boyne was not what he represented
himself to be.

Durrant set out to probe the mystery, and by
dint of ingenious application to the affair, he became
on friendly terms with the hall-porter.  Truth to tell,
Durrant had represented himself to be a demobilised
officer who had been in love with a lady who had
rented one of the flats.  He had discovered her name
from the house-agent, and knew that she had married
during the war.

From the hall-porter he learned that the man
who had passed in was an occasional visitor, but to
whom he did not know.  He would try and ascertain.
The lips of all hall-porters of flats are readily
unlocked when their hands are "crossed with silver."  And
why not?  In our post-war civilisation little is
effected without a *quid pro quo*.  Even the British
Cabinet Minister looks for reward; alas! that it
should be so.  Patriotism in all the Allied Countries
seems synonymous with personal ruin, and those who
have realised the fact are the profiteers upon gallant
men's lives.

Gerald's discovery at the back of Upper Brook
Street brought the pair to a dead end as far as their
investigations went.

They met as usual at lunch and discussed the
situation.  What could be done?

"All I can see, Marigold, is for you to continue
your visits constantly to Bridge Place and learn all
you can from your aunt," Durrant said.  "There is
evidently something extraordinary in progress.  But
what it is we cannot possibly tell without more
thorough investigation."

"But what can we do further?" asked the girl.

"I can do nothing just yet, except to receive
reports from you," replied Gerald.  "You can visit
Boyne's house and let me know from time to time
what is in progress there."

"But the prisoner upstairs?" she asked.  "How
can I know more?"

"By watching," was his reply.  "Do you know,
Marigold, I've been thinking—thinking deeply over
the affair.  We are both agreed that we intend to
fathom the secret of this man.  Well, now could you
not one evening, when you visit your aunt, be taken
suddenly very unwell, and then remain there in the
house and watch?"

"Really, Gerald, that's a splendid idea!" exclaimed
the girl.  "Yet it seems an imposition upon
Mr. Boyne."

"I know that.  He poses as a man without anything
whatever save the commission he collects upon
the premiums on the lives of the honest inhabitants
of Hammersmith.  Yet, as we know, he is in touch
with certain people of a much higher class than
himself.  The house in Pont Street is a great enigma to
me.  We must elucidate the mystery.  That is my
object."

"I am ready to work at your orders, Gerald," was
the girl's reply, with the genuine love-look in her
eyes.  "Yes, we will do our utmost to solve this
mystery!"

In consequence of this conversation, a few days
later Marigold went one afternoon to visit her aunt,
old Mrs. Felmore, and in the evening was taken very
unwell.

Mr. Boyne, who returned as usual about six
o'clock, was told of the girl's illness and went down
to the kitchen, where he saw her, and, speaking
kindly, asked if he should fetch the doctor.

"No, thank you, Mr. Boyne," the girl answered,
rather weakly.  "It's awfully good of you, but no
doubt I shall be better presently, and able to go home.
I have a curious dizziness.  It came on quite
suddenly."

"Are you subject to it?" he inquired.  And then
in the next breath asked if he could get her anything.

"My aunt has given me a cup of tea," was her
reply.  "And I already feel better."

"Don't think of going to Wimbledon to-night
unless you feel better," he urged.  "Mrs. Felmore
can make you up a bed in the spare room."

She thanked him, and though she assured him
she would be well enough to go home in an hour or
so, she had no intention of returning home that
night.

Boyne, on his part, looked weary and worn.  His
clothes were shabby, and his cheap boots were down
at heel and dusty after a long day's tramp in the
meaner streets of Hammersmith.

Returning to his sitting-room, he took his bulky
insurance books from his pocket.  Then he threw
off his jacket, sat down to tea in his shirt sleeves,
and fed "Nibby," his pet rat.

Mrs. Felmore, like many deaf folk, could tell
what was said by watching people's lips.  When
her employer had left the kitchen, she remarked
to her niece:

"Isn't Mr. Boyne a dear nice man?  Whenever I
feel unwell he is always so ready to get me
anything.  You know how bad I was with my
rheumatism last winter?  He wouldn't let me work,
but engaged old Mrs. Kirk from the Mall."

"Yes, auntie, he is," Marigold declared.  "But
I didn't tell him how bad I feel.  I really don't know
what has come over me."

"Why not let him call the doctor?"

"Oh, no.  I'll be all right soon," she said
cheerfully; and then she reseated herself in the summer
twilight near the open window.

At half-past eight o'clock Bernard Boyne, having
washed and changed his clothes, went out.

Marigold fell to wondering where he might be
going.  It had been arranged that Gerald should be
on watch outside the house that night, but when they
had met at lunch, he had told her that he was
compelled to accompany his principal to Birmingham
that afternoon, for a conference was to be held in that
city on the following day.

"I may be away for a day or two, dear," he had
said.  "But in the meanwhile discover all you can."

Boyne went direct from Hammersmith to Pont
Street, where he found that his wife had gone out to
dinner.  She would be back soon after ten, the young
man-servant informed him.

Therefore he went to his room and put on evening
clothes—a very smartly-cut suit with white
waist-coat and mother-of-pearl and diamond buttons.  As
he stood before the long cheval glass, examining
himself after he had tied his cravat and put on his
coat, the transformation, he thought, was surely
complete.  Nobody meeting him in that luxuriously
furnished house would ever have recognised in him
the trudging, hard-working insurance agent of
Hammersmith.

He descended to the drawing-room, but his wife
did not return till past ten.  She was in a strikingly
handsome gown of black-and-gold tissue, with a
shimmering ornament in her hair, while around her
neck was a rope of splendid pearls.

"Well, Lilla!" he exclaimed pleasantly, as he
threw himself lazily into a soft arm-chair.  "I'm glad
you're back early.  Where are we to meet Ena?"

"At Murray's, at eleven.  Then we go on to the
Carlton to supper," was her reply.  "Remember our
name to-night is Davidson, and we live at Welsford
Hall, in Northamptonshire.  Ena wants to introduce
us to Mrs. Morrison."

"But Mrs. Morrison is likely to meet one of us
again, and it might be awkward," the man remarked,
as he slowly lit a cigarette.

"She is not likely to meet us again—except at
Ena's house—is she?" said his wife, with a curious
expression in her narrow eyes.

"No, I suppose not—if all goes right, and there
is no hitch," he said reflectively.

"Hitch!  How can there be a hitch?" asked Lilla.
"Ena will do her part, while you do yours."

"When does Ena propose that the little affair
shall be done?" he asked.

"Next Saturday—if that suits you?"

"Saturday," he repeated again reflectively, as he
examined his cigarette.  "It will take about nine to
ten days, so on the following Monday or Tuesday
week it should be complete."

"It ought to be, Bernard.  We shall soon be
wanting more money, you know.  We've been spending
freely and investing a lot of late.  Ena was here
this afternoon.  Mrs. Morrison came up from Brighton
this morning in order to go to the theatre with her,
and meet us at supper afterwards.  You can tell her
how you hunt with the Fitzwilliam and Lord Exeter's
hounds.  She knows nothing of fox-hunting, and it
will impress her."

"Yes.  Ena has told me the woman is just the
widow of a Glasgow man who has plenty of money,
but who knows practically nothing of English
society."

"Why Ena is so keen that we should meet the
woman, I can't think," Lilla remarked.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I suggested it," was
his reply.  "When she invites her to dine we shall
be there.  It looks better for Ena to have other guests,
especially if—well, if anything happened."

"I hope nothing untoward will happen," she
exclaimed quickly.

"No," he laughed.  "Don't worry, my dear.  It
is all plain sailing.  We shall cash a big cheque
before long—depend upon it!  But time is getting
on.  We ought to get along to Murray's and meet
them on arrival."

Therefore the pair put on their coats, and a taxi
being called, they drove to Murray's, where they
awaited the arrival of Mrs. Pollen and her guest.

Ten minutes later they came.  The red-haired
widow was dressed superbly, and wore wonderful
beads of Chinese jade.  Her companion, handsome
and also well-dressed, expressed delight when her
hostess introduced her to her old friends, Mr. and
Mrs. Davidson.  The latter both became extremely
affable, appearing very pleased when Ena told them,
what they already knew—namely, that she had
reserved a table at the Carlton for supper.

Then the four drove in a taxi to Pall Mall, where
they had a very pleasant meal.

Mrs. Morrison, of Carsphairn, was a hard-headed
and sensible woman.  She cared but little for the
so-called excitements of society, but that evening she
had greatly enjoyed the play, and now as she gazed
around at the smart crowd coming in and taking the
tables allotted to them, the daring and often
magnificent dresses, and the host of good-looking men,
it was something of a novelty to her.

"Before my husband's death I travelled a good
deal on the Continent," she explained to
Mrs. Davidson.  "But nowadays I remain mostly in
Scotland.  I entertain a few people at Carsphairn
for the shooting, but beyond that I live very
quietly."

"So do we," Lilla replied.  "We are just country
cousins.  Our place is in the wilds of Northamptonshire,
and my husband hunts a good deal."

"Ah!  Northamptonshire and Leicestershire are
the centre of fox-hunting, are they not?" said the
Scotch woman, addressing Mr. Davidson.

"Yes.  We have several packs within easy reach,
though Welsford, where we live, is, strictly speaking,
in the Fitzwilliam country.  I love hunting," he
added.

"My husband even goes cubbing at four o'clock
in the morning sometimes," laughed Mrs. Davidson.

"Ah!  He is evidently an enthusiast!" Mrs. Morrison
agreed.  "My husband was a fisherman,
and I confess I had to go with him on some very
dull expeditions in the north of Scotland and in
Ireland."

"That's the worst of men," Lilla declared.  "If
they take up hunting, fishing, or golf, it becomes an
obsession.  They talk of nothing else."

And so the chatter about hunting and hunting
men continued, apparently to the intense amusement
of Ena Pollen—or "Mrs. Morrison" as she was
known to the Manchester solicitor and the doctors
who had pronounced her life to be a "first-class"
one.

The orchestra was playing one of the latest
waltzes, and the big restaurant was filled with chatter
and laughter.  Surely none who sat there that night
and noticed the three ladies and their male
companion as they drank their champagne, and ate that
supper dish of the London restaurants, *mousse de
jambon* served from the ice, would ever have
dreamed that a most diabolical plot was in progress,
a conspiracy the most subtle and fiendish that the
evil mind of man could ever devise.

Ena Pollen was, of course, the life and soul of
the party.  Very handsome, with her auburn hair
and her bizarre dress, she was regarded by half the
people in the restaurant.  Some of them knew her
by sight as a regular habituée of the smart restaurants
and dance-clubs, for it was part of the great game
which the heartless trio was playing for her to be
remarked and regarded as a woman of outstanding
grace and beauty.

Men courted her society, and in more than one
instance—if the truth be whispered—had been
hurried to the grave in consequence.

The quartette, after a delightful meal, took their
coffee and Cointreau at a little table set beneath a
palm out in the hall.  Mrs. Morrison had become as
charmed with Mrs. Davidson as she had been with
Ena Pollen.

"You must come up and see me at Carsphairn,"
she urged Lilla.  "No doubt your husband, living
in the country, shoots.  I can give him some grouse
in the season.  We have a fair amount of game on
our moor at Balmaclellan."

"I shall be delighted, Mrs. Morrison," was
Davidson's reply; as he lifted his eyes to
Mrs. Pollen they exchanged significant glances.

Then, after a merry chat, Ena suddenly said:

"Can't all three of you dine with me at home
one evening?  You are not going North yet, are
you, Mrs. Morrison?  Do come.  What about next
Saturday?"

"I'm going back to Brighton to-morrow," was
her reply.

"But you can easily run up on Saturday.  Do.
Let us dine early and go to a show together, eh?"
she suggested with her usual enthusiasm.  "You'll
come, Lilla, won't you?"

Mrs. Davidson hesitated.  She replied that she
feared that she had an engagement that evening, and
her husband was certain that he had.

"Oh, now, do come!" urged the Red Widow.
"If Mrs. Morrison will come, you really must
come."

Then, after a few half-hearted arguments and
protests, Mrs. Morrison accepted the invitation and
the Davidsons did likewise.  And so the quiet little
dinner was fixed, Ena promising to get a box at some
theatre.

"Then we will go to Murray's or Giro's afterwards,"
she added.

Later, when Boyne and his wife were together in
a taxi on their way to Pont Street, Lilla turned to
him, and said:

"It all seems to go well if you can be ready by
Saturday.  If you can't, then we shall be in the
cart!"

"Leave it all to me," he said in a hard, changed
voice.  "We shall be at Upper Brook Street on
Saturday, and I hope we shall be successful.  It
won't be my fault if we fail."





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.. _`THE PERSON FROM UPSTAIRS`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   THE PERSON FROM UPSTAIRS

.. vspace:: 2

Marigold Ramsay, still pretending her sudden and
unaccountable illness, lay upon a narrow iron
bedstead in the spare room of Bernard Boyne's house,
listening, and unable to sleep.  She was there as a
watch-dog.

Time after time she heard the bells of St. Paul's,
Hammersmith, chiming the hours, but there was no
sound below.  Mr. Boyne had not returned.

The night was sultry and her window was
slightly open.  As she lay awake, she wondered what
strange secret could be hidden in that house of
mystery.  Her aunt suspected nothing.  That was
evident, or she would have mentioned it to her.  To
old Mrs. Felmore, Bernard Boyne was a good and
patient master, the persevering honest man which all
Hammersmith judged him to be.  None dreamed that
he led such a curious double life of dusty tramping
by day, and enjoying himself in the gay haunts of
the West End by night.

It was nearly half-past two when a taxi set him
down at the end of Hammersmith Bridge, and he
walked to that house covered with virginia creeper.
Not recollecting the fact that Marigold might still be
there, and knowing that old Mrs. Felmore would not
hear him enter, he placed his key in the latch
and entered, closing the door heavily, as was his wont.

Marigold, on the alert, heard him.  He went along
the narrow, stuffy passage into his sitting-room.  The
girl sprang from her bed, put on the dressing-gown
her aunt had lent her, and opened the door noiselessly.
She heard the click of a lock in the room
below, and knew that Boyne was giving Nibby his
food, as he did every night without fail.  Mrs. Felmore
always left him something, meat or biscuit, to
give the tame rat each night before he retired.

"Nibby" was Mr. Boyne's weird obsession; Mrs. Felmore
hated it, but it was in its cage living in the
cupboard by day, and allowed to run about the room
at night, nibbling the evening newspaper or the
old-fashioned furniture, for it was as destructive as all
its race.  One day Mrs. Felmore found that it had
gnawed the corner of the carpet, while on the next
she discovered that it had made a hole into the door
of the cupboard opposite that in which it lived.  And
rat-holes are unsightly, to say the least.

As Marigold listened she heard Mr. Boyne speaking
to his pet.

"Now then, you've had enough, Nibby!  Get
back, you elusive little dear!"  And she heard him
chasing him across the floor.

Then he unlocked another cupboard, and a few
minutes later he came out into the passage and
ascended the stairs.  In consequence she closed her
own door noiselessly, slipped the bolt, and stood
listening.  He passed her door, and then ascended
the next flight of stairs, therefore she reopened her
door instantly and, looking out, saw his form
disappearing round the corner of the next landing.

She held her breath.  He was dressed in that
long hooded cloak of white, just as she had seen
him on that well-remembered night weeks ago.  He
was on his way to that locked room, and carried in
his hand food for its imprisoned occupant!

Dare she follow him?  She was there at Gerald's
suggestion, and it was for her to discover all she
could.  As she listened she heard the key being put
into the Yale lock of that strong door at the top of
the stairs.  She heard him enter, the latch clicking
behind him.

Then she heard strange cries—cries of surprise
and rage—human cries!

Summoning courage she crept noiselessly after
him, listening intently.  There were no sounds of
voices—only those strange cries—though, having
ascended the second flight of stairs, she could see a
streak of light beneath the door, and could hear
him moving about within.  Suddenly, just as she was
about to ascend the third flight, she heard him
approach the door and open it.  Instantly she drew
back and flew down into her room.  And none too
quickly, for a second later they would have
encountered each other face to face.

Boyne, unsuspicious of being watched, for so
occupied was he that he had forgotten Marigold's
presence in the house, returned to his sitting-room,
divested himself of the hideous disguise which he
always wore when visiting the locked room, and then
reascended to bed.

The girl lay awake for hours until, wearied out,
she fell asleep till her aunt brought her some tea.

"Don't let Mr. Boyne know that I've stayed here
to-night, auntie," she said, getting up hurriedly.
"I'll get away before he comes down.  I don't want
him to know I've been so ill."

The old woman read her lips and nodded, saying
in a whisper:

"As soon as you're gone, dear, I'll make the bed."

"I don't want any breakfast.  I'll get to the City
early, and have it there."

And this she did.

When Boyne came down to breakfast he asked his
housekeeper how her niece was, to which she
replied that she had recovered at about ten o'clock on
the previous night and gone home to Wimbledon.

Saturday was always an "off" day with Mr. Boyne.
Working people did not pay their weekly
insurance premiums till Monday.  Saturday is the
half-day with the working class as Wednesday is
with the shop-keeping community.  Now on that
particular Saturday Bernard Boyne, at eleven o'clock
in the forenoon, sent Mrs. Felmore to King Street
to buy him a tin of tomato soup.  He wrote down
the brand on an old envelope.  And he wanted
nothing else.

"If one grocer has not got it, another has, no
doubt.  If you can't get it in Hammersmith go down
to Chiswick or Bedford Park," he said.  "You'll
find it somewhere."

And the old woman, whose shopping successes
were always marvellous considering her stone deafness,
went forth, little dreaming that such a brand as
that he had written down was non-existent.

So all the morning until well into the afternoon
Bernard Boyne had the house entirely to himself.  As
soon as she had gone, Boyne put on his white
disguise and, rushing upstairs to the locked room,
opened it.

"Now then!" he shouted roughly.  "Are you
ready?  Have you dressed yet?  No—you haven't.
Now put it on—quick.  Come out and get some air.
It's stifling in this place!"

He waited at the door, whereupon a white figure,
dressed exactly the same as himself, emerged, and
slowly and painfully came down the stairs.

The two weird figures, linked arm in arm,
descended to Boyne's parlour, whereupon in an
authoritative tone he ordered the strange creature to
be seated.

"Sit there!" he said.  "And I'll open the
window.  You want a bit of air and exercise."

"Food!  Food!" came the words, weak and
squeaky behind the hideous mask.

"Very well.  I'll go and get you some.  But
you can't eat it yet.  Not till you're back again in
your own room.  Food!" he said roughly, with a
sneer.  "You're always wanting food and water.
Fortunately the cistern is up there, or I'd have to
carry up every drop for you.  But your food I never
forget, do I, eh?" he shouted, as though the strange
figure was as deaf as old Mrs. Felmore.

The hooded figure, huddled in the arm-chair, only
shrugged its shoulders.

From the voice it was impossible to tell the sex
of the individual.  The tone was weak, squeaky, and
quite unnatural.

"Now, tell me, what have you done?" asked
Boyne.  "How is it progressing?  I know you must
be lonely sometimes, but it can't be helped.  You are
not fit to mix with us, you know.  And you exist
upon my charity.  I am always good to you!
Understand that!"

"I—I know," squeaked the figure, whose white
cloak was soiled and stained, while those two long
slits for the eyes under the pointed hood gave it a
most weird and forbidding appearance.

"I hope you appreciate all I've done for you,"
Boyne went on.  "If I had not risked all this, where
would you have been—tried and executed in the
hangman's noose.  But I have done my best—though
often you don't appreciate it."

"I—I do!" cried the voice from behind that
strange disguise.  "And I do all that you tell me,"
it whined.

"Very well," laughed Boyne.  "We'll let it rest
at that.  The failure you lately had put me right
in the cart.  We mustn't have another.  Remember
that!  Let it sink into your brain.  You are clever,
I know.  But a single slip and both of us will go
where we don't want to!"

"I know!  I know!  Yes—yes," replied the
huddled figure.  "But it was the weather—always the
weather.  And it is so hot under that roof."

"Weather be hanged!" replied Boyne.  "This is
winter—cold winter!—and yet you believe it to be
summer."

As a matter of fact, it was hot summer weather,
yet Boyne was trying to impress upon his companion
that heat was cold, and vice versa.

The two weird figures in white cloaks, with only
slits for the eyes, like Brothers of the Misericordia
of Mediæval Italy, only in white, instead of black,
sat opposite each other.  Boyne was giving to his
prisoner a breath of air, and a change in his living
room.

A few minutes later the strange occupant of the
locked room uttered the single word:

"Nibby?"

"Oh, yes, dear little Nibby is here," was Boyne's
reply.

Rising, he fumbled beneath his cloak, and with
his key unlocked the cupboard and opened the cage,
from which the tame rat darted down and across
the room.  A second later he was sniffing the cloak
of the figure from upstairs, running around the hem
of the cloak with his little pink nose, while the
wearer of the cloak put down a hand to be smelt, saying:

"Nibby, my dear little Nibby, that I have lost so long!"

In all London no scene in broad daylight could
have been more weird than that at noon on a summer
morning in Bridge Place, Hammersmith.

Boyne, the mystery man, held in such high esteem
from Addison Road to Kew, sat there with the poor
crouching figure as his victim.  Behind those long
narrow slits in the white fabric showed a pair of dark,
deep-sunken eyes—eyes that were inhuman and
unnatural.

The voice from behind the mask was metallic and
squeaky.  Whether the person was a man or a
woman could not be conjectured.  The high-pitched
note was feminine.

"Am I not good to you to allow you this little
relaxation?" asked Boyne.  "You don't often get
it, I admit, for the old deaf crone is always about,
and I can seldom get rid of her."

"I—I felt—I felt very ill—last week.  Days
ago!" croaked the mysterious occupant of the locked
room.

"I go up to you every day.  You never complained.
You are usually asleep when I come up."

"You come up at night.  But all day I look out
from the window over the roofs towards the river."

"River!  What do you mean?  There is no river
here.  It is a desert—a desert of bricks and mortar.
You dream."

"Yes—yes.  I dream!  I—I'm always dreaming,"
was the response.

It was evident that Boyne held his half-imbecile
prisoner completely in his power, and that all the
orders of the insurance agent were obeyed.

Into the room strayed a ray of summer sunlight
across the threadbare green carpet, lighting up the
dingy old place.

The stranger from upstairs saw it, and squeaked:

"Look!  It's summer—summer!"

"Summer!" cried the man who held him
enthralled.  "You're dreaming!  It's winter.  We
get sun in winter sometimes.  Surely you know
that—dense as you are."

"I'm not dense," came the protest.  "I do all you
ask—fine jobs, too."

"You're dense about sunshine," Boyne repeated.

"Ah! yes.  But not about the rats.  Where's Nibby?"

Boyne caught the little animal and gave it into
the hands of the strange figure, who stroked its sleek
coat.

Suddenly the weird form in the soiled white disguise
sprang to its feet without warning, and, facing
its jailer, shrieked:

"Ah!  But who are you?  Who are you?  I'm
beginning to realise the truth at last—*yes—at last*!"





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.. _`RELATES A STRANGE CONVERSATION`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   RELATES A STRANGE CONVERSATION

.. vspace:: 2

"Who *are* you?" shrieked the weird, hooded figure
in the white cloak in a fierce voice, standing up
suddenly above the seated man who was in exactly
similar disguise.

The pair, one seated, and the other having
suddenly sprung up, faced each other.  The smaller, and
apparently weaker figure had assumed a distinctly
offensive attitude.  His eyes shone behind the narrow
slits.

"Fool!" laughed Boyne, who was seated.  "Sit
down, you idiotic fool!"  And he waved his hand
in contempt.  "If I had not looked after you, and
hidden you here, you would long ago have been
given over to the hangman.  Just remember that!"
he shouted loudly.  "Sink that into your skull,
sleepy brain!"

"But—but," faltered the figure.  "But who are
you?  You are not Wisden!"

Boyne, disguised in his white cloak with hood—the
two presenting the most weird spectacle in the
light of day in that dingy room in Hammersmith—started,
then hesitated for a second.

"Yes," he replied, in a hard voice.  "I am
Wisden!  Now you know!  Wisden, of Twywell!
Do you recollect the name?"

"You—Wisden!" gasped the person whose
countenance was disguised by that hideous hood.
"I—I——!"  And he sank back into his chair.

"Now you know, you accursed fool!" exclaimed
the mystery man.  "And let that also sink into your
silly noddle.  Further, keep a still tongue.  Be silent
when you are up there, for people may listen and
hear you.  If they do, then you'll be discovered, and
your death will be quick.  Recollect that they are
waiting for you—the affair isn't forgotten."

"No," sighed the weird figure.  "No—I know it
hasn't been forgotten.  My crime!—*my crime*!"

"Yes.  But don't refer to it.  Just keep a level
head, my dear Lionel, as you always do.  I will still
look after you if you remain silent and do what I
order.  I will supply you with everything.  But be
very careful that when I carry you up your food you
don't speak.  Somebody might overhear.  These
cursed walls have ears, although the old woman
Felmore is deaf.  Do you understand me?" he asked
in a more imperative voice, rising, taking him by
the shoulders, and shaking him.  "Now tell me—you
understand—eh?"

"Yes, yes!" the other gibbered in a strange
tone.  "You—Wisden—Willie Wisden!  Oh, yes!
I—I see!  Dear old Willie, who was with me at
Monte Carlo.  Oh, yes!  *And that beautiful
microscope*?"

"You've got it upstairs.  Don't you recollect it?
Why, I gave it to you in the Terminus Hotel, in
Marseilles, three years ago.  Are you growing
foolish?  Surely not!"

"Yes.  Oh, yes!  I recollect now—the beautiful
mike—oh, yes!  Oh, what that instrument must have
cost—oh, what a lot!—what a lot of money!"

"It did cost a good bit.  And it's yours.  So
don't worry.  I'll look after you, Lionel.  But don't
play the fool, or you'll go to the gallows over that
unfortunate little affair—I warn you!  Scotland Yard
is looking everywhere for you, and they would have
had you long ago if I hadn't taken you in hand
and had pity upon you."

For a few moments the strange figure huddled
in the chair remained silent.

"Yes—I know.  And—and Lilla?" he asked.

"She's dead—died a year ago," was Boyne's
prompt reply.

"Lilla dead!" sighed the other.  "Poor Lilla!
She was a very good wife to you—just as Alice was
to me!  Poor Lilla!"

"Don't you bother about my personal affairs,
Lionel.  Just keep your own end up, and breathe
the bit of fresh air now while you can before you
go back to your own quarters.  I don't like you
getting up through that trap-door on to the roof.
Somebody might see you one night."

"My quarters!  My prison, you mean!" he
retorted bitterly.

"Prison?  Fool, what are you saying?  Your
room is surely comfortable, and I do my best for
you.  If you want to get out—do so.  And you'll
be arrested by the first police constable who comes
along."

"But it is prison!" replied the mysterious figure
in a voice asking for pity.  "Prison!"

"Well—take your liberty, and take the consequences,"
the other responded roughly.

"Look what I do!  I'm always working for you—always!"

Boyne laughed harshly.

"Very well!  Give it up, and I'll fling you out into
the gutter—now—just as you are!  I shan't suffer,"
he added, "but you will!  By gad you will!"

The man from upstairs cringed and drew his breath.

"No!  No!  Wisden!  No!—don't do that!  I'll
do all you ask—all!  Alice—my dear Alice—always
said you were my best friend—my very best friend."

"And so I am, my dear fellow!" exclaimed
Boyne.  "I've done my best for you all along—all
along."

"Look!" cried the lonely man who lived upstairs,
and whose movements were never heard by deaf old
Mrs. Felmore.  "What's that?"

And with a shriek of horror he pointed to a
corner of the dingy room.

"What?  I don't see anything!" was Boyne's
reply.  "You've got one of those spooky fits of yours
coming on again.  You'd better go back."

"I don't want to go back," whined the person
whose Christian name was Lionel.  "Surely you
won't send me back, Wisden?"

"Yes; for your own sake you must lie low.  Try
to understand what I say.  We are mutually interested
in each other.  It is to the advantage of both
that you should remain here.  I am not your jailer,
recollect.  If you wish, you can walk out now.  But
I warn you that you will walk straight into the
hangman's noose.  Scotland Yard and the Old Bailey
are awaiting you, and are ready, never fear."

"But where's Alice?" asked the squeaky voice.

"Alice is dead."

"Are you sure?  How and where did she die?"

"In Avignon.  In a house close behind the Pope's
Palace.  Surely you remember?  You were there."

"I wasn't there.  I swear I was not.  When we
were in Avignon we were all happy together.  Alice
with me, and you with Lilla."

"My dear boy, your memory is at fault.  Did
you not stay in Avignon while Lilla and I motored
to Paris?  Now think!  Did you not take an apartment
in the Rue Cardinale, and remain after our
departure?  Alice, your wife, died there!  Why, only
a few minutes ago you deplored her loss!"

"Yes.  But how can I be certain that she is
dead?" asked the other dubiously.

"Because I tell you she is.  I'm not a liar!"
cried Boyne fiercely, again assuming an overbearing
attitude.

"But I want to go home—to see my home again—the
garden—the flowers—and Alice."

"You'll never see her again.  And you are safer
here.  So you had better go back to your room and
keep a still tongue.  And be careful not to make a
noise.  You made a horrible row the other night."

"I didn't!"

"Yes, you did.  I could hear you moving about
above me.  You should move your bed across to
the other side, near the trap-door that goes out on
to the roof of which you are so fond."

"Ah! because I get air.  But I only open it and
go out after it's dark, I assure you."

"Well, you've got plenty of stores.  I bring you
bread and fresh meat and vegetables, and you've got
the cistern full of water.  Why, if I went away for
for a month or six weeks you wouldn't starve.  I always
see to that.  And look what it costs me!" exclaimed
the humble insurance agent.

"Ah!  Nibby.  Dear little Nibby!" cried the
weird man from upstairs in that inhuman, high-pitched
voice, as he noticed the tame rat dart across
the threadbare carpet.

"Yes, Nibby knows you!" laughed the man
Boyne.  "He's a dear little fellow, isn't he?"

"Yes.  I miss him after so long," replied the
man.  "Can't I take him upstairs with me?" he
asked piteously.

"No, he would gnaw through the door to get
back to me, and old mother Felmore would find
rats in the place.  She knows of Nibby, but we don't
want to arouse her curiosity.  Women, deaf or not,
are always dangerous when one has secrets."

"And how is Mrs. Pollen—eh?"

"Mrs. Pollen!" echoed Boyne.  "Whom do you mean?"

"Why, Ena Pollen, the friend of Lilla.  You
know the woman—tall, handsome, red-haired.  She
worked a dirty trick upon some man she met.  They
had supper at the Ritz.  He died, and nobody
suspected.  Ugh!  Isn't it funny how one can lead
a crooked life and everyone think one perfectly
honest?"

"Well, you're not honest, my dear Lionel,"
laughed Bernard Boyne.  "If it had not been for
me I repeat you'd have been hanged for that affair
two years ago."

The man in the hooded cloak shuddered.

"Yes," he replied in a changed voice.  "You
are right; I owe everything to you, and that's why
I do all you ask of me.  They say there is no genius
without lunacy.  So I suppose you think me a
lunatic—eh?"

"I don't think, Lionel—I know you are," Boyne
responded.  "You've acted as a silly fool, and you
made a serious slip in killing the girl, but I'm trying
to save you from the police.  They are still hunting
over all Europe for you."

"But did I kill her, Wisden?  Did I?  I don't
remember it!"

"Remember it.  Why, you've got no memory.
You only remember all your science and your
wonderful knowledge—a knowledge unequalled.
Yes! you killed her, and by an ace I rescued you from
arrest.  You recollect little Maggie?"

"Ah! yes.  I—I know what you mean!" gasped
the other.  "Little Maggie!  But I didn't kill her!"

"You did.  Your damnable criminal instincts led
you to kill her, and that's why Scotland Yard is
searching daily for you!"

"Maggie!  I—I killed Maggie!"

"Yes, you did—and you know it, you infernal
hypocrite!" cried Boyne.  "Now, don't try to
argue.  I'm in my right senses.  You aren't!  I
haven't time or inclination to have a war of words
over it.  Besides," he added, glancing at his watch,
"Mrs. Felmore will be back at any minute, so you
must get upstairs again—and without delay."

"But can't I go home?  I—I want to see my
garden—the flowers——"

"No!" snapped Boyne.  "You can't.  You'll
stay here."

"Do let me go—*do*," pleaded the other in that
curious high-pitched voice.  "I do want to see my
garden again."

"You'll see the inside of a prison if you are not
very careful," Boyne declared in a warning tone.  "So
don't think about going home."

"But am I never to go home?"

"At your own risk.  Remember, I'll take no
responsibility.  Your description and photograph are
in every police-station here and on the Continent,
and, as I've told you lots of times, the moment you
step outside into the street you will court danger.
You'll be arrested by the first policeman who sees you!"

"Surely I may go home—if only for a day!  You
could take me there."

"Later on, perhaps," Boyne said encouragingly,
in a tone which he would have adopted to a child.
"For the present you must remain where you are,
safe.  And don't make a noise, otherwise somebody
may hear you," he urged.

"I don't make any noise.  I'm always so careful.
And I only go out on the roof at night."

"The less you go out there the better," growled
the insurance agent.  "I run risks every time I come
up to bring your food.  Only the other day
Mrs. Felmore was saying that Nibby seemed to have an
enormous appetite.  That's why I've brought you
up that store of tinned stuff."

"I haven't had any tea for a week."

"But you've got your gas-ring and your kettle."

"The kettle leaks."

"Then why the deuce didn't you tell me that
before?  I'll bring you a new one to-day."

"And some fresh milk and some eggs.  I've
tasted none for weeks."

"Well, if you are in hiding you must put up
with what food you can get," growled Boyne.  "I
do my best for you—and even now you're not
satisfied."

"I want to go home."

"Home?  For them to know that you're still in
London?  They all think you've escaped to Greece,
and got clean away.  That's what I told them."

The man so strangely disguised drew a long breath.

"Ah! if only I could have got away," he
murmured wistfully.

"Yes, it would have saved me a lot of bother,
wouldn't it?" snarled the other.  "No; be patient,
and be grateful."

"I am grateful, Wisden—very grateful."

"You're not!  You're a dissatisfied hound who
deserves no pity or consideration.  I do my best and
shelter you, and all you do in return is to grumble."

"Oh! but you don't know how lonely it is up
there.  I sit all day alone."

"And sleep your hours away!  Look at me,
trudging about all day long for next to nothing.
True, I have freedom, but there's no charge against
me as there is against you."

"No!" cried the man Lionel in his squeaky voice.
"But there may be one day, remember!  There may be!"

"Don't be a fool!" snapped Boyne.  "Get back
to your den, and lie low."

"I shan't!"

"What—you defy me—eh?"

"Yes.  I know you—who you are!" shouted the
mysterious man.  "You're *not* Wisden.  *Your voice
is not his*!"

"Infernal idiot!  So you've got another attack
coming on, have you!  Come, get up," for he had
sunk into a chair again.  Pulling him up, he shook
him roughly by the shoulder, saying: "Get up, and
come along."

"I won't!" he cried sullenly.  "I tell you I won't
go up there any more!"

"Very well then, I'll fling you out into the street
now, just as you are.  You'd cut a fine figure,
wouldn't you?"

"I don't care!"

"All right.  If you don't care, come along and
get out of my house."  And he took him again by
the shoulder and hustled him out of the room towards
the front door.

"What do you mean to do?" asked the
mysterious prisoner in a frightened voice.

"Do!" Boyne echoed fiercely.  "Why, kick you
out!  I'm sick of trying to help such an unthankful
blackguard."

"I—I'm not unthankful," he declared.  "I'll go
back."

"Ah!  I thought you wouldn't relish being put
into the hands of the police—eh?" laughed Boyne.
"Go upstairs."

The hooded man turned towards the stairs with
a disconsolate sigh, but without further words.  He
saw that all argument was useless.

"Come!" whispered Boyne, whose quick ear had
caught a sound in the kitchen below.  "Mrs. Felmore
is back!  By gad! hustle up—quickly."

And the man painfully climbed back to his secret
hiding-place, the door of which Boyne closed just
as Mrs. Felmore arrived at the foot of the stairs in
search of her master.

"Curse the fellow!" Boyne muttered beneath his
breath.  "He's growing defiant, and that means
trouble for us—serious trouble!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON SATURDAY NIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   ON SATURDAY NIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

The events of that particular Saturday were of such
portent that it is necessary to describe them in some
little detail.

When the Man from Upstairs had safely escaped
from Mrs. Felmore's observation, and Boyne had
expressed regret that her shopping expedition had
been fruitless, the honest insurance agent ate the
frugal lunch which his housekeeper put before him,
and then went out.

An hour later he returned with a large parcel,
which he smuggled in away from the deaf old
woman, and ten minutes later, pretending to have
forgotten, he sent her out to buy some postage
stamps.

So she put on her hat in calm obedience, and
once more went forth into King Street.

As soon as she had gone, Boyne opened the parcel,
which contained a new tin kettle and a quantity of
groceries and provisions, and then sprang up the
stairs, unlocked the door with his key, and entered
the secret abode.

He was there for about three-quarters of an hour.
He heard Mrs. Felmore come in, but took no heed.
If she knew that he was upstairs, she would no doubt
believe that he was looking out some of his insurance
papers.

About half-past three Boyne came forth, and,
locking the heavy door, descended to his sitting-room
with a satisfied smile upon his smug countenance.
What had happened in that locked room
evidently pleased him.  He went to the nearest
telephone call-office, and ten minutes later was
speaking with his wife in Pont Street.

"You, Lilla?" he asked, recognising her voice.
"It's all right!  I shall go to Ena's at six, and then
come on to you.  Have you heard anything?"

"Yes.  She's come up from Brighton, and not
being able to get a room in any of the big hotels,
has gone into a private one at Lancaster Gate.  Is
all correct?"

"Yes.  See you after I've seen Ena," was his
reply, and he rang off.

Back again he went to Bridge Place, and at half-past
five left for Upper Brook Street.  He, however,
did not pass the inquisitive hall-porter, but entered
by the servants' way, for he was by no means
well-dressed.

Inside Ena Pollen's flat, he walked to the
drawing-room, where the Red Widow joined him, asking
anxiously:

"Well, how goes it, my dear Bernard?"

"All progresses as we would wish.  I thought I'd
run up here before I go to Lilla's to change.  Where
is Mrs. Morrison?"

"At Lancaster Gate.  At a private hotel I recommended.
I urged her to remain in town for a week
or ten days, and she's consented."

"Excellent.  What's the place like?"

"Oh! quiet and eminently respectable.  Mostly
rich old fogies from the country go there.  I thought
it would be better to remain in touch with her, you
know."

And the Red Widow laughed grimly.

"I've got the table set ready.  Come and see it,"
she urged.  And she took him into the adjoining
dining-room, a handsome apartment, with carved
oak furniture and several old and valuable paintings
upon the walls.  Upon the circular polished table
the plates were set upon small mats in the latest
vogue, while both the silver and glass were ancient.
Covers were laid for four, the decorations consisting
of only two long-stem glasses of pale-pink carnations.
Taste and delicacy were displayed everywhere,
especially in the antique Georgian plate, with the
genuine Queen Anne "montieth" as a centre-piece.

"Will it do?" she asked.  "I laid it myself."

"It is perfect!  It will impress her with your
sense of the artistic, Ena," he declared.  "I hope
the meal you will give us will be as refined."

"I hope so," she laughed.  "In a sense—a certain
sense—it will be more so."

He laughed at the hidden meaning contained in
that remark.  Then he glanced around the room, and
recollected the great expense which the preliminaries
of that single meal had entailed.

"I've asked her for half-past seven," Mrs. Pollen
said, "so you'd better go over and dress, and get
here a little late.  She'll settle down before you come.
Then you can both apologise.  Of course, we've not
met since that evening at the Carlton."

"Right, I quite understand," he said.  "Where
is she to sit?"

"There—with her back to the sideboard."

Boyne nodded approval.

The Red Widow opened the cupboard on the left-hand
of the sideboard, where he saw in a row four
beautiful liqueur glasses, delicately cut, with square
stems.  His quick eye examined them, and he took
out one.  It was exactly the same as the other three
except that it had a round stem.

He held it in his fingers for a second, and a
sinister smile played about his lips.

"Yes—I see!" he remarked.  "She likes
liqueurs.  Most women do."

"Especially Cointreau.  They like the subtle
flavour of tangerine orange," laughed Ena.  "Don't
you recollect what she said about it at the
Carlton—that it is her favourite drink with coffee?"

"Yes.  And we, of course, indulge her!"

"Indulge!" echoed the woman.  "A nice word, truly!"

Boyne was twisting the liqueur glass he had
selected in his fingers.

"I wish you'd get me a cocktail, Ena," he said.
"I'm dying for one."

"Then I'll get you one at once.  There's none
here.  I'll go into the kitchen and mix one—gin and
French vermouth, with a dash of anisette and lemon—eh?"

"Exactly.  That's what I want.  You're a dear,"
replied the man, and the widow left to prepare it.

A few minutes later she returned with a small
glass on a silver tray.  He took it, and swallowed
the contents at two gulps.

"By Jove!  Excellent.  Johnnie at the Ritz
couldn't make a better, Ena.  But you were always
famed for your corpse-revivers!"

"Glad you like it.  Now get away at once, or
you'll have no time."

"Mind the glass!" he said in a serious voice.

"I'll see after it all right, never fear.  You do
your work and I do mine—eh?  Now get away, and
don't arrive before a quarter to eight or so."

"Yours to obey, Ena," was his response, and he
at once slipped out by the servants' entrance into
the mews, and, hailing a taxi a few minutes later,
drove to Pont Street.

On arrival he at once met his wife, who was
anxiously awaiting him in the drawing-room.

"All right, Lilla!  Don't worry.  Things all go
well," he assured her.  "I've seen Ena, and we shall
have a very delightful dinner.  We go to the new
revue at the Hippodrome afterwards, and then on
to Giro's for supper—a very delightful evening."

"And then——?" asked his wife, looking him
straight in the face.

"Well—and then a little affair of business—eh?"

Lilla laughed at the grimace her husband made.

Boyne left her at once, and ascending to his
bedroom, shaved, exchanged his clothes for a
smart evening suit, and carefully brushed his hair,
until, when he descended, he presented the ideal
man-about-town whose evening clothes were well
worn and who wore his soft-fronted shirt as one
accustomed to it every night.  The man unused to
the claw-hammer coat is always to be noticed in a
crowd, just as is the woman who, putting on an
evening frock occasionally, hitches it up on the
shoulder and is palpably uncomfortable in it.

Bernard Boyne wore his clothes, whether the
dusty suit of the Hammersmith insurance agent or
the smart evening clothes in which he pursued his
nocturnal peregrinations in the West End, with equal
grace and ease.

When he rejoined his wife in the pretty drawing-room
he presented a very different figure from the
man who had sat in that ugly white cloak with the
slits for eyes in that dingy, creeper-covered house in
Hammersmith.

He rang the bell, and, ordering a taxi, lit a
cigarette, and awaited it.

Lilla was splendidly dressed in a gown of navy
blue and gold brocade, cut very low, with shoes and
stockings to match.  In her hair was a long osprey
which well matched the gorgeous gown, the latest
creation of Petticoat Lane—the writer begs pardon
of his lady readers for such irreverent mention of
Dover Street, Piccadilly, that street in which the
latest fashions of feminine frippery have their birth,
and to which the mere man sends his cheques in
consequence of recurring crazes.

When together in the taxi, Lilla said:

"Now be extremely careful.  This Scotch woman
is very canny.  Remember that!  If we made a slip
it would land us all in—well, at a very dead end."

"Don't be anxious, Lilla.  I never like you when
you grow anxious, because anxiety always brings us
bad luck.  And we don't want that to-night—do
we?  Eat your dinner and think of nothing—only of
the revue at the Hippodrome.  Leave Ena and myself
to it.  Don't bother—or you may arouse suspicion."

Later, when they alighted in Upper Brook Street
just before eight o'clock, the uniformed hall-porter
touched his cap as they entered and took them up
in the lift.

"Oh! my dear Ena," cried Lilla, as the two
women met in the drawing-room.  "Do forgive me—do!
Bernard came in late from the club.  It's all
his fault!  It really is not mine!  I waited for him
half an hour."

"Yes, Mrs. Pollen," said Boyne penitently, "I
take all responsibility upon myself.  I had to see a
man on business at the club, and the brute was
half an hour late.  So I had to rush home and
dress—and here we are.  Do forgive me—won't you?"

Ena Pollen laughed, declaring that she had
overlooked the offence, whereupon Mrs. Morrison shook
Lilla's hand warmly, and they sank into chairs until
two minutes later dinner was announced by the smart
maid.

Dinner!  Bernard Boyne and Ena Pollen had
given dinners before, artistic and perfect meals which
would have delighted any gourmet, even though he
had tasted the pre-war gastronomical delights of the
expensive restaurants of Moscow, Petrograd or
Bucharest.

When they sat down, Ena directed Mrs. Morrison
to her seat with her back to the sideboard, saying:

"You won't have any draught there, my dear.
This room is so full of draughts.  I don't know
where they come from!"

"I hope you are staying in town a little while,
and that we shall see something of you," said Lilla
to Mrs. Morrison as they tackled their asparagus
soup.  "You must not go back to Scotland yet, you
know."

"Well," replied the other, a handsome figure in
her discreetly décolleté gown, "Ena has been urging
me to remain in London for a few days, but I
couldn't get a room anywhere.  All the hotels are
full up, but I at last got in at a place in Lancaster
Gate—quite comfortable, though it's a bit expensive."

"All hotels are terribly dear now, though, after
all, hotels are cheaper than one's household
expenses," Lilla replied.

"Well, I've taken my room for a week.  I may
be in London longer, but I have to visit my
sister-in-law at Aviemore on the twentieth of next month,
and then I go over to Arran to my niece."

"Stay with us as long as you can, Mrs. Morrison,"
Boyne urged warmly.  "You must dine with us at
Pont Street one night next week."

"Thanks!  I shall be delighted.  I've got appointments
with the dressmaker."

"And the dentist, of course," laughed Boyne.
"All ladies have appointments with their dentists.  It
is the best excuse a wife can have for the deception
of a too inquisitive husband."

"Not in my case, Mr. Davidson," declared the
widow of Carsphairn, with a merry smile.  "I have
no one to whom I need make excuses.  But, as it
happens, I am going to a dentist!"

"There you are!" laughed Ena.  "He divined it."

The meal went on merrily to its end, after which
the maid handed round the black coffee in exquisite
little china cups, the spoons having handles shaped
like coffee beans.  Then she retired.

Ena, glancing at the old chiming clock upon the
mantelshelf, suddenly exclaimed:

"Oh! it's getting late!  And Evans hasn't put on
the liqueurs.  I'll get them myself."

And rising she obtained from the sideboard four
liqueur glasses, together with bottles of old brandy,
Benedictine and Triple-Sec.

"Now, dear, you'll have your favourite Cointreau,"
she said, addressing Mrs. Morrison, and
pouring out a glass of the clear water-like extract of
Tangerine oranges.

"No—no thanks!" was the prompt reply.  "I
really don't want it."

"Oh, but you must!" declared her hostess,
pressing her.  "I'm going to have one, and so will you,
Lilla, I'm sure."

"Oh!  yes.  I love it," declared the other woman,
while Boyne glanced eagerly to satisfy himself that
the stem of Mrs. Morrison's glass was *round and not
square*.

"Come, you must have half a glass, dear," declared
Ena, and she poured it out disregarding her
guest's half-hearted protests.

Then, the others being served, the big silver box
of rose-tipped cigarettes was opened, and they took
one each.

Bernard Boyne watched the widow from Scotland
sipping her small glass with the utmost satisfaction,
while the other two women were excited, though
they seemed quite cool, engaging her in conversation.

"Do you know," exclaimed Mrs. Morrison, "I
grow more fond of this liqueur each time I take it.
We can't get it in Scotland, so I order it from
London.  It is the purest of all the liqueurs, that is
my belief."

"It is," declared Boyne, with a meaning look
towards Ena.  "It is never injurious as so many of
these green, red and yellow alcoholic and sugar
concoctions are."

"No," replied the wealthy owner of Carsphairn.
"I quite agree."  And she drained her glass with
undisguised satisfaction.  "It has a most exquisite
flavour, and it does one no harm."

Boyne smiled grimly across to his hostess and
suggested that they should be going if they wanted
to be there at the opening of the revue.

The quartette sat in a box, and greatly enjoyed
the medley of songs and dances until, at the close,
they went off to a gay supper at Giro's, which they
did not leave till nearly two in the morning.

Just before Boyne dropped his wife from a taxi at
the corner of Pont Street, he said:

"Well, Lilla!  It all went well, didn't it?  No
hitch.  We ought to have some news from Lancaster
Gate about Wednesday or Thursday."

"Good!" replied the woman.  "We'll wait in
patience.  Only I do hope it will turn out as we
expect."

"It will—never fear!  Good-night."

And she stepped out to walk down the street to
her own house, while he continued in the taxi to
Hammersmith Broadway, where he also alighted.

Then, as he walked home, he muttered to himself:

"It can't fail this time.  On Wednesday next we
shall hear how beneficial to the health is that most
excellent liqueur."





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.. _`CARRIES THE MYSTERY FARTHER`:

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   CHAPTER XV


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   CARRIES THE MYSTERY FARTHER

.. vspace:: 2

On Monday, according to a previous arrangement,
both Gerald and Marigold obtained leave of absence
for the afternoon from their respective principals,
and after lunching together as usual, went on the
top of an omnibus to Kew, where they walked for
an hour in the celebrated gardens.  Then they went
to Hammersmith to take tea with Mrs. Felmore.  The
deaf old woman welcomed them warmly, and they
sat together in the kitchen, though Gerald could not
talk with Marigold's aunt.

The girl, who could speak with her aunt with
ease, put to her several questions concerning
Mr. Boyne's movements, but learned nothing unusual.
She feared to tell the old woman of that uncanny
disguise which he adopted when he visited that
locked room upstairs, or of that weird, but certainly
human cry which she had heard above.

Personally, Gerald suspected the cry to be the
result of her vivid imagination.  The theory that
somebody was imprisoned in that upstairs room was
fantastic, but highly improbable, therefore he had
dismissed it.  Yet presently the old woman made
one remark which struck him as curious.  In the
course of conversation Mrs. Felmore said:

"Poor Mr. Boyne!  He does all the good in the
world that he can.  Only yesterday I found hidden
in one of the cupboards in his bedroom a whole lot
of tinned stuff—tongues, fruit, jam, biscuits—a host
of things that he's got up there on the quiet.  I
asked him what he was hoarding them up for, and
he said that he was sending a big parcel of groceries
to a poor widow he knew at Notting Hill Gate."

"Curious to have a store of tinned stuff in his
bedroom!" remarked Gerald, at once recollecting the
suggestion that somebody might be in hiding
upstairs.

"Yes, sir," replied the old woman.  "But Mr. Boyne
is very eccentric sometimes—very eccentric!"

"In what way?" he asked eagerly.

"Oh! he gets up in the middle of the night and
goes up and down stairs—I often see the light under
my bedroom door."

Marigold and her lover exchanged glances.

"I wonder what he does?" asked the girl.

"Ah!  That I can't say," was the old housekeeper's
response.  "I asked him one day not long
ago, and he simply told me he had woke up, and as
he couldn't go to sleep again, he went down to do his
accounts."

"Well, this store of food shows him to be of a
philanthropic turn of mind," remarked Gerald, with
a smile.  And then, disregarding the fact that Boyne
might return at any moment, he succeeded in getting
Mrs. Felmore's permission to slip upstairs and view
the collection of preserved foods which was going to
the poor widow.

Marigold quickly found it stored in the bottom
of a cupboard, covered by an old overcoat and some
worn-out shirts, which had apparently been flung
in at haphazard.

Gerald's quick glance saw something which
further aroused his curiosity—a small brand-new tin
tea-kettle and a little enamelled basin.  With them
was a new roll of absorbent cotton-wool and a quart
bottle of cheap port wine, which from its label had
been purchased of a local grocer.

"Funny that he should send her a tea-kettle and
basin!" remarked Durrant, as he handled them.
"And look!  What's this?"  And he took out a
small wooden box about three inches square, such
as is used by jewellers to send watches by post.  He
opened it and within, carefully packed in cotton wool,
was a small lens surrounded by a threaded brass ring
evidently a portion of some optical instrument.

"Part of a telescope!" the girl exclaimed.
"Surely a widow would not require that—however
poor she might be!"

"Yes, dear," said her lover, holding the box in
his hand and reflecting.  "This is a curious hoard,
and I am wondering if it is intended for the unknown
person who is living in seclusion above."

"Well, Mr. Boyne's explanation to auntie is quite
clever, if what you suggest is the solution of the
mystery."

"But is not Boyne always clever?" he asked.
"That he is leading a double life we have already
established.  It is now for us to solve the problem
of the reason of this locked room upstairs."

"Then you think this has been bought in order
to feed somebody who is living up above in silence
and seclusion?" she asked.

"It seems like it.  But if we watch carefully and
see in which direction it disappears, whether inside
this house or outside, then we shall begin to penetrate
the mystery."

"But how shall we do it?"

"This requires very careful consideration, dear,"
was his reply.  "My own feeling is that you should
by some means or other endeavour to spend the next
few days here with your aunt, so that you can keep
daily watch upon this strange collection of
provisions.  But we mustn't remain here, for Boyne
may return at any moment."

So they descended the stairs to the kitchen, and
hardly had they reached it when the heavy tread of
the man of mystery was heard in the hall above.

While Mrs. Felmore was upstairs interviewing her
employer as to what he required for tea, the lovers
held hurried consultation.

When the old woman returned, Gerald rose and
motioned to her that he intended to go as perhaps
Mr. Boyne would not like to discover him there.  He
placed his finger upon his lips, shook hands with
the deaf housekeeper, and stole out and up the area
steps, keeping well out of sight of Boyne's window.

"Mr. Durrant was in a hurry, eh?" asked the
old woman.

"Yes, auntie.  He was afraid that Mr. Boyne
might not like him calling here, so he's gone.  But
I'm here, and—well, to tell you the truth, auntie, I
don't exactly know what to do!"

"Do—why?" asked the old woman, her eyes
starting as was her habit when surprised.

"I'm at a loose end, auntie.  They want my
room over at Wimbledon—but only for a week.
Hetty and Jack have come home from their music-hall
engagement in Paris, and they've asked me to
give up my room for a week.  So I've no place to
sleep.  I've been wondering if Mr. Boyne would
mind me coming here.  Do you think he'd object?"

"No, I'm sure he wouldn't mind, dear!" she
declared.  "I'll ask him now—when I go up.  He's
often inquiring after you."

So when she took up her master's tea a quarter
of an hour later, she said:

"Marigold's downstairs, sir.  She's in a bit of
trouble, sir."

"Trouble!  Why?" asked Boyne sharply.
"What's the matter?  Has she left the bank?"

"Oh, no, sir.  It's only because she's turned out
of her room at Wimbledon for a week for her brother-in-law
and his wife, so she wants to come here and
stay with me.  Would you have any objection?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Felmore.  Tell her to come
up and see me now."

Then, when the old woman had gone, his genial
attitude instantly changed.

"So the girl wants to come here—does she?  Yes,
she shall come.  Oh, yes!" he growled grimly.
"She and that fellow are playing a very pretty game.
But I shall win, never fear!"

A moment later Marigold entered the room, saying:

"It's awfully good of you, Mr. Boyne, to put me
up again!  I fear I'm a terrible nuisance, but I was
in such a difficulty that I came to auntie, and asked
her if she knew of anyone who could give me a
room.  She then said that she thought you might
allow me to stay here."

"My dear Miss Marigold," he said quite genially,
"you are welcome to stay with your aunt.  I've told
you so over and over again, haven't I?  How are
you getting on at the bank?"

"Oh, quite well, thanks!  It is rather monotonous—figures
always—but still it's better than at that
motor dealer's where I was before.  People who deal
in motor cars have no conscience, and are, I believe,
the biggest liars on earth."

Boyne laughed.  He had an appreciation for the
smart young lady clerk, whose quick wit and ready
repartee always appealed to him.  But two days
before he had made a discovery which had aroused
his suspicions.

It was, however, arranged that Marigold should
occupy the same room which she had had when taken
suddenly ill a short time before, and Boyne added:

"Just do as you like, my girl.  I have a great
regard for your aunt, as you know, and you are quite
welcome here, I assure you."

The girl, believing that he was unsuspicious,
thanked him and, leaving the room, descended to the
kitchen, where she told her aunt all that had
transpired.

Personally she liked Mr. Boyne.  It was only
the discovery of that weird disguise of his that had
aroused her curiosity, which, indeed, was but natural.

She left the house half an hour later and travelled
to Wimbledon Park, returning with her leather
blouse case containing a few necessaries.

Eight o'clock had struck ere she arrived at Bridge
Place.  At the corner of the street Gerald confronted
her.  He had kept watchful vigil upon the house to
see whether Boyne had brought out any parcel for
the poor widow.  But the man of mystery had not
come forth.

She told her lover with enthusiasm how Boyne
had invited her to stay there, and promised to keep
a watchful eye upon things.

"Excellent, dear," Gerald declared.  "You go in,
and I'll still remain here, and follow him if he goes
out to spend the evening."

"Be careful that he doesn't notice you," she
urged.  "He has awfully quick eyesight."

"I know that.  He very nearly spotted me the
other day.  In fact, I was afraid that he had."

"I see you've got a cap on," she laughed.
"Where is your hat?"

"I've left it in a shop in the Broadway to be
renovated and ironed, and I bought this cap to wear
meanwhile.  Does it make any difference?"

"Certainly it does.  And you've got a new jacket,
too."

"The same.  I bought it at a reach-me-down shop
in King Street an hour ago, and left my own there.
Does it fit?"

"Not very well around the collar, but nobody
would really notice it," she declared.

Gerald Durrant was both shrewd and determined.
When he set his mind upon a thing, he carried it
through at all costs.  He intended to penetrate the
veil of mystery which enveloped this good
go-to-meeting collector of insurance premiums.

"Well," he said at last.  "Be watchful, and be
careful, dear, that you don't arouse his suspicion.
He's a mystery, and all men of his calibre are
ultra-suspicious, and masters in the art of concealing their
own feelings."

"Don't fear, Gerry," she laughed.  "I shall be
as clever as he is.  You do your watching outside,
and I'll do mine within.  I shall probably telegraph
to Mr. Kenyon to-morrow and make excuse that I'm
ill.  Then I shall have a day in the house to examine
things a little more closely."

"That's a good idea!  Watch those things in his
bedroom—that tea-kettle and the other things.  Find
out when they go—and where," were his parting
injunctions.

Five minutes later Marigold went down the area
steps into the kitchen, where her aunt was cooking
Mr. Boyne's succulent steak.

"He says he's very hungry to-day—hasn't had
any lunch, so I went out and got him this!"
exclaimed the old woman.  "If he eats it all, then he
ought to do well, eh?" she remarked, in her
somewhat high-pitched and rasping voice.

"Yes.  I suppose he'll go out afterwards," said
Marigold.

"He said he'd got to go out at nine—to a meeting
somewhere," was her aunt's reply.  Therefore
her niece took from her bag a postcard, scribbled
something upon it, and in pretence of going to the
post she went out to Gerald and told him what she
had learned.

This afforded Durrant time to go along to the
"Clarendon" for dinner and a rest before resuming
his patient observations.

On her return, Marigold put on an apron and
helped her aunt.  Indeed, she carried up the tray
into Mr. Boyne's room.

"Ah!  I see I've got a new parlour-maid, eh?" he
laughed merrily.  "And an unusually smart one, too!"

Marigold laughed, and set the table, saying:

"Well, I thought I'd just give auntie a hand,
Mr. Boyne.  Half an hour ago she complained that
her leg hurt, because of the stairs, so I thought I'd
help her."

"Very good of you," he said, lounging in the
frayed old arm-chair in his shirt-sleeves, a different
figure indeed from that he so often presented at night
in the West End.  There, in the smart restaurants
and in theatres, he wore his evening suit and nodded
acquaintance with many well-known people, who
little suspected his obscure abode.

Marigold waited upon him as though she were a
waitress instead of a ledger clerk, but he was reading
the evening paper as he ate his meal, and spoke but
little more.

"Yes, you're a pretty miss, you are!" he growled
to himself after she had left the room.  "If you don't
mind you'll be very sorry that you entered my house."

At a quarter to nine, having washed and changed
into a rather seedy suit of blue serge, he went out.
Marigold heard him bang the door, and knew that
Gerald was on the alert outside.

The evening passed quietly until at ten Mrs. Felmore
went to bed, and her niece also retired.
She bade her aunt good-night, went into the spare
room and closed the door.

She shook out her thin summer dressing-gown,
and placed it upon the rail of the narrow bed.  Then
she reopened the door and stood listening on the
stairs, her ears strained to catch any noise from the
locked room on the next landing of the frowsy old
house.

No sound reached her ears, save the noise her
aunt made moving about in her room.  Downstairs
the cheap old clock in Boyne's sitting-room ticked
loudly and suddenly struck the half-hour.  Beyond
that all was silent.

Marigold, after a long vigil, at last turned off
the gas and, throwing herself on the bed, dressed as
she was, soon fell asleep.

Meanwhile Boyne re-entered the house noiselessly
and, taking off his shoes, crept in silence up
the stairs to her door.  He listened, and could
hear by her deep, regular breathing that she was
asleep.

Slowly he turned the handle of the door—which
he had purposely oiled before going out—and,
flashing a pocket-torch to the ceiling, saw her lying
there, still dressed!

Without a sound he withdrew and crept back
down the stairs.

"I thought so, young lady!" he muttered to
himself, when he was back in his sitting-room.
"You don't know much—neither does your young
man!  But I must take steps for my own protection,
that I can see!"

He stood with his back to the fireplace, his eyes
staring at the sideboard in front of him for some
moments.  Nibby was scuttling about in the cupboard,
so he let him out and the little rodent sniffed
his hand.

"I wonder what makes the girl so inquisitive?"
he thought.  "Surely the old woman knows nothing!
If she does, then she would, of course, confide in her
niece, who, in turn, would tell this young fellow
Durrant."

The lovers were unaware that Boyne had been
making the most careful inquiries concerning both
of them, for the instant he realised that he was being
watched, he had laid certain diabolical plans by which
to triumph.

"It's their lives—*or mine*!" he whispered to himself,
with a strange hard look in his eyes.  "I can't
afford to be watched by such inquisitive folk.  I was
a fool not to take Lilla's advice concerning this girl."

He walked across to the sideboard and poured
himself out a liqueur-glass full of brandy, which he
tossed off at a single gulp.

"I'll test her and see what happens," he said
aloud, with a chuckle.  Then, slipping on his shoes
and going to the front door, he opened it, and,
having banged it, walked heavily back along the
passage to the room.

The noise awakened Marigold, who, all unconscious
that Boyne had seen her there, instantly
jumped up and listened.

She heard footsteps on the stairs and saw a passing
light beneath her door.

She heard him ascend the next flight of stairs
towards the locked room, and then carefully opening
her door, peered out after him.

Suddenly he turned and descended, as though he
had forgotten something, but his quick eye, as he
flashed his lamp upon her door, detected that it was
noiselessly closing.

In pretence of ignorance he passed down to his
own room, and entering it, closed the door heavily.

"Yes," he whispered to himself.  "Ah!  I was
not mistaken!  The girl is here in my house to spy
upon me!  She's dangerous—just as dangerous as
the man.  And in my game I allow no enemies to
confront me!"

Then, laughing grimly, he clenched his bony fists
and set his teeth.

Afterwards he retired to bed, leaving the girl
listening attentively to noises he purposely made.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BAITING THE TRAP`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   BAITING THE TRAP

.. vspace:: 2

Next day Boyne remained in the house until
Marigold had left to go to the City—for she was
anxious to report the result of her vigil to her lover
and then, instead of going out upon his daily
collection of insurance premiums, he went to Pont
Street.

He arrived at the fine red-brick house about
eleven, opening the door with his latchkey.  He
found his wife in her bedroom, and closing the door,
he exclaimed in an unusually excited voice:

"Lilla! there's trouble brewing—*very serious
trouble*!"

"In what direction?" gasped the handsome
woman, starting from the long mirror before which
she was arranging her blouse.

"That girl Marigold—the old woman Felmore's
niece—is suspicious, and she has established herself
in my house in order to watch me!"

"Why is she suspicious?"

"I don't know.  That's the mystery of it.  How
much she knows I can't tell."

"One thing is plain," said the woman.  "If we
are to save ourselves, her lips must be closed.  Surely
that will be easy—just a nice box of chocolates, tied
with ribbon, or something like that—eh?  We did
it before with little Louise, at Cheltenham."

"Yes—but I don't like doing it.  She's really an
awfully nice girl, and I haven't the heart to give her
a 'dose.'"

"She's watching you, you say!  Therefore she's
a danger to us all.  Didn't I warn you about her
weeks ago?  If you don't want to court trouble, just
give her a box of those beautiful expensive sweets,
and then good-bye to all our worries."

Boyne made no answer.

His wife saw his hesitation, and went on:

"It was a rotten trick at Cheltenham, I admit, but
it had to be done—just as it must be done in this
case.  We surely can't afford to take any risks, my
dear Bernie!  What a good job that you've found
out that she suspects—eh?" she remarked.  "So
she must fade out—and very quickly, too.  It's up
to you to do the necessary!"

"But the man—this clerk in Mincing Lane—Gerald
Durrant.  He's a most pertinacious person,
it seems.  We have, I think, more to fear from him
than from the girl," Boyne said.

"Didn't I express doubt a week or so ago, but you
assured me that it was all right?" retorted the
handsome woman.  "Well—what are you going to do?"

"Do!  Why, there's only one way—put an end
to their inquisitiveness," he replied.

"Do be careful."

Oh, I will be—never fear.  But I shall want your
assistance, Lilla, and perhaps Ena's too.  Neither
the man nor the girl is acquainted with either of
you, which is one point in our favour."

"Have you thought out any plan?" she asked
anxiously.

"I've not completed it yet," he answered.

"There must be no failure, remember," said his
wife, betraying considerable anxiety.  "What could
have aroused the suspicions of this accursed girl, I
wonder?"

"Ah!  I can't tell.  I'm always most careful.  But
I have confirmed my suspicion that while the girl is
in the house the fellow watches outside.  He followed
me last night, and I led him a pretty good chase
up to Hampstead, where I called to see Ted Lyons."

"Ted might be useful—eh?" she exclaimed quickly.

"No.  We must keep this affair to ourselves.
It's far too dangerous."

"Well, Ena and I will help you.  But something
ought surely to be done as soon as possible!"

"I quite agree, Lilla.  But the question is how
shall we act for the best?"

"It's easy to deal with the girl—especially as she's
living in your house for a week—but how shall we
tackle the man?" she asked.

"That's the difficulty.  I don't want anything to
happen while she's in my house," was his reply.
"I allowed her to stay because I wanted to satisfy
myself that she was really spying.  Now I've
confirmed my suspicions, and we must act."

"Well, at any rate, it's a good thing that we
know the truth," the woman answered.  "You must
have blundered in some way or other, so it is up to
you to wriggle out of a very awkward situation."

"It is awkward, I admit," he said, gazing blankly
out of the window.  "If they got to know the true
secret of that upstairs room, it would mean that we
should at once be in Queer Street, in more senses
than one—shouldn't we?"

"They must not know!" said the woman in a
hard, fierce tone.  "You will know how to deal with
them, Bernard.  People who have tried to pry into
our private affairs before have, all of them, bitterly
regretted it—haven't they?"

Boyne grunted, but made no reply.

"Will you tell Ena?" she asked.

"Not yet.  It may only frighten her unduly.
When I want her help I'll see her—perhaps
to-morrow," was his reply.

"I suppose we ought to have news from Lancaster
Gate very soon," she said.  "Mrs. Morrison went
to tea with Ena yesterday.  To-day she has gone
back to Brighton, but is due here again to-morrow."

"Yes, we ought to hear of some development
soon," he said with a grim smile.  "That affair is
going all right.  It's this girl and her man who are
so confoundedly dangerous to our plans."

"You had similar trouble with Aitken a year ago,
and you found an easy way out of it, Bernard.  No
doubt you'll soon think of some means by which an
end can be put to their infernal inquisitiveness."

"I have a call to make," he said, rising from his
chair suddenly.  "I'll be back again this afternoon.
I'm going into the City."

And he went out.

At lunch time Marigold met her lover, and it was
arranged that, as he would be at the office late that
evening, he should not resume his watch until the
following evening, neither of them, of course,
suspecting that Boyne knew they were keeping him
under observation or that he was busy laying a most
devilish plan for their undoing.

Gerald Durrant had grown fonder of Marigold
than ever, and the pair were now inseparable.  He
disliked the idea of the girl living in that house of
mystery, but she told him that she was in no way
afraid, and that she was determined to solve the
curious motive of Boyne's double life.

When, at six o'clock, she returned she sat down
to tea with her aunt, and later, while she was laying
Mr. Boyne's table, he came in, greeting her cheerily,
as was his wont.

His attitude towards her was distinctly friendly,
for he gave no outward sign of suspicion.

The evening passed uneventfully, for Boyne went
out about eight o'clock, and he did not return until
long after the old woman and her niece were in bed.

Marigold listened, but only heard him go up to
his bedroom and close the door.  After that there
was no other sound.

Boyne spent part of the following day with Lilla
at Pont Street, where he held a long and secret
consultation with her, after which he took a taxi to Upper
Brook Street and sat with Ena for half an hour,
explaining what he had discovered concerning the
unwelcome attention which young Durrant and the
girl was paying to him.

The Red Widow at once became greatly perturbed.

"But how much can they know?" she gasped,
leaning forward in her chair, pale and agitated.

"Very little."

"They know nothing of your upstairs friend—eh?"

"No.  But they may suspect."

"Then their suspicion must be at once removed,
my dear Bernie!" said the woman, in a decisive
voice.  "We are, I see, confronted with a very grave
peril."

"I agree.  Lionel will be wondering why I've not
been up to see him since Sunday.  I shall go up this
afternoon, before the girl comes back from the bank.
I've got a lot of stuff to take up to him.  He's got
no kettle, poor chap!"

"Ah!  What a life he must lead," said the woman.

"It is his own fault.  He was too curious—and
he got the worst of it, as they all do!"

"But he was quite harmless.  This fellow Durrant
is our enemy."

"And he must be treated as such.  I've found
out a lot about his movements," said Boyne.

"You quickly find out about people, Bernie.
You're really wonderful."

"Not very wonderful, Ena," he laughed.  "I
simply went a few days ago to Chalmers, the private
inquiry agent in Regent Street who has done work
for me often.  I told him I had lent young Durrant
money, and wanted to know something of his habits
and of his friends.  This morning I had a long
confidential report about him.  He lives out at Ealing."

"A pity you allowed the girl to stay with her
aunt.  Why ever did you do so?"

"Well, if she wished to walk into a trap, then
it surely wasn't my business to keep her out of
it—was it?" he asked, with a sinister smile.  "I knew
the reason why she had so suddenly been deprived
of her room at Wimbledon Park, and allowed her
to think that I was a fool."

"She'll no doubt know different ere long,"
laughed the Red Widow.

Then, opening the door, Boyne satisfied himself
that there was no servant in the passage, and
returning to her, he began to speak rapidly in a low,
tense voice.

"What?" she asked breathlessly, when he had
finished.  "To-night?"

"Yes, to-night—why not?" he asked.  "Wear
one of your smartest black dresses.  Come round and
see Lilla.  Then you and she can arrange things."

"But, Bernard!  It's a most desperate game!"

"Not more so than any other," he laughed.  "A
dangerous situation always calls for drastic
measures."

"But will the trap be sufficiently well-baited?"

"I'll see to that—never fear!  Just act as I tell
you and to-morrow we shan't have much to fear
from at least one of this inquisitive pair!"

For a few minutes she seemed lost in thought.

"Ah!  I see you are hesitating, Ena!" he laughed
again.

"I am.  It's a terrible plot!"

"Bah!  Fancy you saying so—you! who have
assisted to bring off so many little affairs that have
brought us big money.  Surely you're not growing
squeamish now, at a moment when we are all in
distinct peril?"

"No," she answered with an effort, for it was
evident that the plan which he had placed before her
had held her horrified.  "No, I—I'm not—not at all
squeamish, but—well—I'm wondering if we couldn't
find some other way out of it."

"None.  We're in danger, and we must take precautions
to defend ourselves—at once—to-night!"

"Very well," she answered somewhat reluctantly.
"I'll go round to Lilla about six."

"When we meet we shall do so as strangers, of
course," he said, with a sinister smile.  "Look your
best—won't you?"

"Very well," she laughed, and five minutes later
he sat down at the telephone in the room and spoke
to his wife.

"All right, Lilla," he said.  "Ena will be with
you about six.  I've told her exactly what we've
arranged.  I'm now going back to Hammersmith,"
and, after hanging up the receiver, he took leave of
the Red Widow and went direct to Bridge Place.

Mrs. Felmore was surprised that her master
should return so early, for he was at home before
five.  Marigold had not come in from the office,
therefore he sent the deaf old woman out to the post,
and, putting on his long white gown, took up to the
attic the new tin kettle and some other things.  But
he did not obtain them from that cupboard in his
room.  He had purchased duplicates on his way home.

He was not upstairs for more than five minutes—just
sufficient to reassure the weird recluse and
hand to him the necessities required.  Then he came
down again, and calmly read the evening paper till
his meal was ready.

Marigold did not return before seven, but she left
her lover to resume his vigil outside.

At eight o'clock Bernard Boyne went out as usual,
and Marigold spent another quiet evening with her
aunt, confident that Gerald was keeping a very
vigilant eye upon the man of mystery!

Next day at the lunch hour she went eagerly to
the little restaurant, but he did not put in an
appearance.  She wondered why.

On returning to the bank she at once rang up his
office, but was informed that he had not been there
that day!  He had sent his principal a telegram
stating that he had been suddenly taken ill, and
apologised for his absence.  The doctor had said that
he could not return for several days.

Making excuse to Mr. Kenyon, the assistant
manager, she left the bank at four, and at once went
over to Ealing, only to find that his sister had
received a telegram late on the previous night, which
had been handed in at Charing Cross Post Office
and read:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Don't worry!  Am all right.  Returning in two
or three days.  Writing.*—GERALD."

.. vspace:: 2

Further mystified, she at once went back to
Hammersmith, where she found a telegram which had
arrived for her at eleven o'clock that morning.  It had
been dispatched from Knightsbridge, and read:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Am all right, dear!  Do not worry.  Have
discovered something, but am not returning for a day
or two.*—GERRY."

.. vspace:: 2

"Is it from Mr. Boyne?" asked her aunt as
she watched the girl's face.

"No.  Why?" she asked.

"Because Mr. Boyne hasn't been home all night,"
was her aunt's reply.  "I can't think what's
happened to him!  When I went up this morning to
wake him, because I thought he had overslept
himself, I found that his bed had not been slept in!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"NEWS" FROM LANCASTER GATE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   "NEWS" FROM LANCASTER GATE

.. vspace:: 2

Marigold was naturally much puzzled.

What had her lover discovered?  What did he know?

By the varying forms of the telegrams she saw
that he had excused himself from the office upon a
plea of illness, while really he was working in secret
to elucidate the mystery of the hooded man of
Hammersmith.

The fact that Boyne had been absent that night
and had not yet returned, did not arouse her curiosity,
for she concluded that Gerry had been following
him ever since the previous evening.

She relied upon her lover's cleverness and
ingenuity.  The changing of his clothes showed her
that he was resourceful.  She admired him for it.

So she took her tea with her aunt, and afterwards
laid Mr. Boyne's table in eager readiness for his
return.

He came in and greeted her as cheerily as usual.

"Tell Mrs. Felmore that I expect she's been
wondering where I've been all this time.  But I went out
to Loughton, in Essex, to see a friend last night, and
I stayed there.  Tell her so, Miss Marigold, will you?
And now for my supper!  I'm horribly hungry!"

He ate his meal, yet not by any means in the
manner of a hungry man.  He only toyed with it,
for, a matter of fact, he had left Pont Street half
an hour before, having taken leave of the Red Widow
and his wife, whose faces had borne grim smiles of
complete satisfaction.

That night as Marigold lay awake, unable to
sleep, she became obsessed by the one idea that
she ought to leave the house of mystery and return
to Wimbledon Park.

Gerald, by his mysterious message to her, had
evidently got upon the track of something, therefore
it was useless for her to remain any longer in that
strange atmosphere of doubt and fear.

Boyne had retired, and though she remained on
the alert until the first streak of dawn shone through
the blinds, she heard no movement to arouse her
suspicion.

Next day, when she came down into the kitchen,
she told her aunt that she was returning home.  So,
taking her blouse-case, she left before Mr. Boyne
came downstairs.

"Marigold has gone to the bank, sir," said
Mrs. Felmore when she placed Boyne's coffee and kippers
upon the table.  "She left word that she thanks you
very much for allowing her to stay here, but she
couldn't encroach on your kind hospitality any
longer."

"Oh!" exclaimed Boyne in surprise.  "She's
gone—eh?"

"Yes, sir.  She went out a quarter of an hour
ago.  She waited to see if you came down—but she
had to go."

Boyne grunted, and remarked something beneath
his breath—words that the deaf woman, even with
her expert lip-reading eyes, could not understand.

Marigold had slipped safely out of the way.  The
fact filled him with intense chagrin.  What did it
portend?

"At least Durrant's activity is at an end!" he
growled deeply to himself.  "Now we have to deal
with this girl.  For the present nobody can know
of the whereabouts of Gerald Durrant.  When they
do—I hope the peril will be over!"

And he swallowed his coffee with the gusto and
satisfaction of a man who had made a most complete
coup, and from whose mind some great weight had
been lifted.

An hour later he entered the Hammersmith Post
Office and telephoned to the Red Widow.

"Any news, Ena?" he asked as he sat in one of
the boxes.

"Yes.  Augusta spoke to me half an hour ago.
I'm going round to Lancaster Gate at eleven.  She's
taken ill.  A pity, isn't it?"

"Sorry to hear that!" he replied in a grim voice.
"I'll see you at Pont Street at seven—eh?"

"Yes.  I'll run round," Ena answered.  "I've just
been through to Lilla.  I wonder what can be the
matter with poor Augusta?  A chill, perhaps—eh?
Poor lady!  But I hope it isn't serious."

"I hope not.  Good-bye for the present."

And then the honest, hard-working collector of
insurance premiums of the poor of Hammersmith
went forth upon his daily round, trudging from street
to street, knocking or ringing at the doors of the
insured.

He made a call in Dalling Road, just beyond the
railway arch, and then, proceeding up the thoroughfare,
consulted his pocket account-book.  Close to
Chiswick High Road he made a further call, where he
signed the book for the weekly premium.

Presently he halted at a small and very poor-looking
house in the Devonport Road, a turning off
the Goldhawk Road, where he rang at the door.
At the windows were curtains blackened by the
London smoke, for the whole neighbourhood was
one of genteel poverty, but of despair.

An ugly, but cleanly dressed old woman answered,
and, seeing him, knit her brows.

"Ah!  Come in, Mr. Boyne!" she said, and the
collector of premiums entered.

Five minutes later he came out, the old woman
following him.  He was evidently not himself, for
usually his was a kindly nature towards the poor.
But that day his manner was rough and uncouth.
Something had upset him.

"Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Pentreath," he said in a
loud voice.  "But, you see, it isn't in my hands.  I'm
only a humble servant of the company—an ill-paid
servant who gets just a living wage upon the
premiums he collects.  You've had time to pay, you
know, and if you can't pay up this week—well, the
policy must lapse.  You've been given notice of it
for six weeks.  The company has been very lenient
with you.  Other companies wouldn't have been so
lenient."

"But my poor Bertha!  She's come home from
service, and is in bed with consumption.  I have to
look after her and try to give her the nourishment
Doctor James orders.  It isn't my fault that I haven't
paid you.  It really isn't."

"I can't help that," replied Boyne roughly.
"Your insurance policy must lapse—that's all.

"And after fifteen years that I've paid regularly
each week!" exclaimed the poor woman in dismay.

"Well, it isn't my fault, I tell you.  I'm not the
company," was his harsh reply.

"And my poor Bertha so ill.  It's
cruel—it's inhuman, I say!" she shouted in a shrill
voice.

Boyne only smiled grimly.  He was not the kindly
man of other days.

"It probably is so," he replied, turning away from
the door.  "But it's our insurance business; and
business is business, after all!

"Yes!" retorted the poor woman.  "You people
are robbing the poor—that's what it is!  And after
fifteen years!  Why, I've paid your company more
in that time than what they would have paid to bury
my Bertha!"

At a small house in the Loftus Road he knocked
three times, and a dwarfed, red-eyed girl at last
opened the door.

"Poor mother's dead, Mr. Boyne!  Didn't you
see the blinds?" she asked.

"Dead!" he exclaimed, looking at the little
window of the sitting-room.  "Get your book."

"I'll go and get it," was the girl's reply.
"Mother died late last night.  The doctor says it's
heart disease."

"All right.  Give me the book," he said brutally.
"I suppose we'll have to pay.  You paid up last
week, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir, I paid you—and you'll find it down,"
the girl said, and, disappearing, she presently
returned with the insurance book.

The house-to-house visits of the insurance
collector of those fat dividend paying companies who
insure the lives of the lower classes are truly fraught
with many strange dramas and stirring tales of
poverty and misfortune.

While Bernard Boyne was on his weary round,
Ena Pollen alighted from a taxi at the private hotel
in Lancaster Gate, a big, old-fashioned house which
for years had been known to country visitors to
London as a quiet and excellent place in which to
stay.

The young man-servant who opened the door told
her that Mrs. Morrison was upstairs.  The proprietor's
wife met her in the hall, and, in response to
the Red Widow's inquiry, said:

"Mrs. Morrison hasn't been very well for a couple
of days.  She was taken ill last night, so I called my
doctor—Doctor Tressider—and he came to see her.
He seems puzzled.  He can't make out at present
what's the matter with her.  He's calling again
to-night.  She came over very ill when she returned
from Brighton."

"I'll go upstairs," said Mrs. Pollen.  "It is most
unfortunate, isn't it?  She's only here in town for a
short time, and now she's taken ill like this.  I do
hope it's nothing serious."

"Oh, no.  I asked Doctor Tressider, and he
thinks it is simply a little stomach trouble.
To-morrow she'll be better," was the woman's reply.

So Ena ascended the stairs, and, after tapping
at the door, entered the neat little bedroom on the
second floor.

"Well, dear!" she exclaimed cheerily as she
entered.  "I couldn't let the day pass without coming
to see you.  Whatever is the matter?"

"I really don't know, Ena," replied Mrs. Morrison
of Carsphairn.  "I felt so ill in the train coming
up to Victoria that I had great difficulty in getting
back here."

"But the doctor says you'll be all right to-morrow,"
said Ena.

"I feel awfully ill," replied the other feebly.  "I
seem so feverish—hot at one moment and cold at
another."

"No, no," said Mrs. Pollen cheerily.  "You'll
be all right, never fear.  When one feels feverish
one's temperature is generally below normal.  I do
hope these people are looking after you all right?"

"Oh, yes, they do.  I have no complaint to make
on that score.  You recommended me here, and I
must say that I'm most comfortable.  But what
worries me is my visit up North."

"Don't bother about that," laughed the other.
"Get well first.  Write and tell them you can't come."

"I wish you would do it for me.  Pen and paper
are over there," said the sick woman, whose eyes
glistened strangely.

"No; you must do it," replied Ena quickly.  She
had a reason.  "If I were to write to them they might
think it strange.  You are not too ill to write.  I'll
get you the pad."

And, carrying it to her on the bed, she induced
Mrs. Morrison to write two letters to her friends—letters
which she duly posted when she got outside.

"The doctor doesn't seem to know what is the
matter with me," the invalid said in a weak voice
after she had laid down her fountain pen.  "My
head is so terribly bad—and my throat too."

"What time is he coming again?"

"To-night, I think.  I hope so."

"My dear, it's only a chill," Ena said with
comforting cheerfulness.  "You'll be all right in a day
or two.  You've been in a draught, perhaps."

"Ah! but my head!  It seems as though it must
burst.  At times I can't think.  All my senses seem
blurred."

"Did you tell the doctor that?"

"Yes.  And it seemed to puzzle him more than
ever.  I hope I'm not going to have a bad illness."

"Of course not," laughed Ena.  "You'll be better
in a day or so.  Remain quiet, and I'll run in
to-morrow morning to see how you are.  If you're
worse, tell them to ring me up.  I'm just going
round to the Davidsons.  They will be most
distressed to hear of your sudden illness."

The widow of Carsphairn turned over on her
pillow and moaned slightly.  Her face was flushed,
and it was evident to Ena that the last words she
had uttered the sick woman had not understood.

So she took her leave, and on descending the
stairs to the wide hall, again encountered the
proprietor's wife.

"My friend Mrs. Morrison seems very unwell,"
said Ena.  "I can't make it out at all.  I do hope
the doctor will discover what is the matter with her."

"Doctor Tressider is my own doctor," replied
the woman.  "He'll be here again before dinner
time, and I hope he won't find anything really
very wrong."

"Well, whatever he says, would you mind letting
me know over the 'phone?" asked Ena, taking out
her visiting-card, upon which was printed her
telephone number.

"Certainly I will," was the reply.

"And if there is anything serious I'll come round
at once," she said.

So they parted, and Ena hailed a taxi outside,
and returned to Upper Brook Street well satisfied
with her morning's work.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE COUP AND ITS CONSEQUENCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE COUP AND ITS CONSEQUENCE

.. vspace:: 2

Next day passed, but though Ena remained at home
in a high state of anxiety, she received no message
from Lancaster Gate.

At eight o'clock she rang up, and spoke to the
proprietress of the hotel.

"Mrs. Morrison is certainly not quite so well as
she was yesterday, but though Doctor Tressider has
been twice to-day he has not yet been able to diagnose
the complaint."

"Is she in pain?" asked Mrs. Pollen sympathetically.

"No.  She does not complain.  But no doubt we
shall know more to-morrow."

"Very well.  Please tell her I inquired, and
to-morrow, about eleven, I'll call and see her again."

And, having rung off, she spoke to Lilla, telling
her of the conversation.

"You'll go to-morrow and see her, my dear,"
urged Boyne's wife.  "Bernard is here.  I'll tell him."

"What about the girl?" asked Ena.

"Oh, for the present she's all right.  She's gone
back to Wimbledon.  The telegrams have satisfied
her."

"Right!  Then I'll see you to-morrow after I've
been to Lancaster Gate," said the Red Widow, and
then they broke off the conversation.

"Well, the doctor doesn't know yet what's the
matter," Lilla afterwards said to Boyne, who was
sitting in the handsome drawing-room.

"Oh! he will to-morrow—never fear!" was the
man's grim reply.  "He must be a duffer if he
doesn't recognise the symptoms.  I expected him to
know yesterday."

"You thought we should have had news on
Wednesday, and it's now Friday."

"Yes.  But delay is rather a good sign," he said.
"Did you tell Ena about the nursing home?"

"Yes; I did so yesterday."

"I've heard that Miss Propert's, out at Golder's
Green, is quite a good place.  Nobody connected
with it has any knowledge of us."

"I told her that.  And she agreed.  She is rather
afraid that some of Mrs. Morrison's friends may
come up from Brighton, and she is in no way anxious
to meet them."

"No!  She mustn't do so!" declared Boyne.
"She must take good care that no friends are at
Lancaster Gate when she calls."

"Good!  I'll tell her that over the 'phone
presently."

"And also tell her not to take a too eager interest
in her—I mean, no interest further than that of a
comparatively freshly made friend," he said; and
afterwards they went out to a theatre together.

Next morning, just before eleven, as Ena Pollen
was contemplating speaking with Mrs. Morrison's
hotel, the proprietor's wife rang up.

"Mrs. Pollen," she said, "I'm very sorry to give
you bad news about your friend.  Doctor Tressider
has just been here, and says that she is suffering
from diphtheria!"

"Oh!  I'm so sorry!" cried the Red Widow.
"How very unfortunate!  Are any other friends there?"

"No.  But I believe somebody is coming up from
Brighton this afternoon."

"Very well," said Ena.  "I'll take a taxi and
come round now."

This she did.  Pleading that she might become
infected, she did not ascend to Mrs. Morrison's
room, but sat in the little office of the proprietor's
wife.

"Of course she can't remain here," said the
woman.  "It isn't fair to my other visitors."

"Of course not," Ena agreed.  "She must go
at once to a nursing home.  A friend of mine had
diphtheria about a year ago, and went to a place
somewhere at Golder's Green.  I think Prosser or
Potter was the name of the person who runs it.  We
might perhaps find it in the telephone directory.  I
think that was the name—but I'm not quite sure.
Poor Augusta!  I'm so sorry, but I really think it
would be unwise of me to go in and see her—don't
you?"

"I quite agree," replied the proprietor's wife, and,
taking down the telephone directory, she began to
search for the name, but could not find it.

At last, after some minutes, she exclaimed:

"Ah!  Here it is.  Miss Propert's nursing home.
Yes, Golder's Green!  Here is the number.  I'll
telephone and ask if they have a room vacant."

Five minutes later it was fixed.  Miss Propert
had promised to send an ambulance at once, and soon
afterwards the Red Widow was round at Pont Street
reporting to Lilla all that had taken place, while
early that same afternoon the patient had already
been transferred to the nursing home, where she had
been promised by the unsuspecting matron "every
attention."

As the days passed Marigold Ramsay travelled
each morning from Wimbledon Park to the City,
and sat each luncheon hour in the same little
restaurant, but alone.

She was sorely puzzled why Gerald did not write
to her.  Without doubt he had gone somewhere to
follow up a clue concerning the mystery man of
Hammersmith, but she felt hurt that he had not
written to tell her of his whereabouts.

Time after time she took out his telegram, which
she carried in her big bag-purse, and re-read it:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Am all right, dear.  Do not worry.  Have
discovered something, but am not returning for a day
or two.*—GERRY."

.. vspace:: 2

The "day or two" had elapsed.  He told her not
to worry, therefore she tried to obey him.  Still, it
was strange that he did not send her a line.

Twice she called at his office in Mincing Lane,
but she was told by a female clerk that Mr. Durrant
had not returned.  Nothing more had been heard of
him, except that he was away at home ill.

Marigold smiled within herself at the excuse her
lover had given for his absence, and wondered hour
by hour what he had discovered concerning Mr. Boyne.

She went over to Hammersmith and had tea with
her aunt.  From her she learned that her employer
had been at home each night.  The only night he
had been absent was the night of Gerald's disappearance.

She even contrived to get a glimpse of the interior
of that cupboard in Mr. Boyne's bedroom, but the
groceries intended for the poor widow of Notting
Hill Gate were still there intact, as well as the
tea-kettle and the bowl.

What had taken Gerald away?

For three days her anxiety increased, when on
the fourth evening, on her return to Wimbledon, she
found a telegram from him.  It had been dispatched
from the post-office in Bristol Road, Birmingham,
and read:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Returning very soon, dearest.  Remain patient.
Tell my sister.  Love.*—GERRY."

.. vspace:: 2

Time after time she read it with complete satisfaction,
and afterwards she went out to Ealing and
showed it to her lover's sister.

"That takes a great weight off my mind, Marigold,"
said Gerald's sister.  "Still, his sudden
disappearance seems very strange.  I wonder why he's
gone away—and why he's in Birmingham?"

"Yes," replied the girl.  "It does seem curious,
but think I know the reason."

"What is it?" asked his sister anxiously.

"A secret reason," was Marigold's reply.  "I'm
sorry that I can't tell you—not unless he gives me
permission."

"What—is anything wrong?" asked the young woman.

"Oh, nothing wrong with Gerald—not at all.
Only he is trying to find out something—that's all.
And until he is successful I don't think he wants
anyone to know his intentions."

"Well, I hope he's made it right at his office.
Employers don't like men who pretend to be ill at
home and go away."

"No doubt he has.  Gerald isn't a fool," the girl
replied, a little piqued at his sister's words, and very
soon afterwards she left for home.

The message from Birmingham allayed her
anxiety to a very great extent.  When once Gerald
took up any matter he never left it until it was
complete.  He was the very essence of business, and his
principal held him in high esteem on account of his
method and his pertinacity.  Marigold knew that.
He was following some secret clue concerning the
hooded man of Bridge Place, and it seemed as
though he feared to put anything concerning it into
writing.

That night as she lay awake she reflected that
the message was indeed very gratifying, yet at the
same time, she found herself wondering why he had
not written her just a few brief words.

She, however, kept her own counsel, feeling confident
that Gerald would as soon as possible return
to tell her what he had found out.

The fact that the store of food in Boyne's bedroom
was still there negatived the idea that it was
intended for any person concealed in the locked room
above.  On thinking it all over, she began to doubt
whether that curious cry was really human, or did it
only exist in her imagination?

Next day she went to the bank as usual, but life
was very dreary without Gerald's smiling face.  He
was her ideal of the fine courteous man, strong, and
devoid of that effeminacy which, alas! too often
characterises the temporary officers who so gallantly
assisted in winning the war.  He had neither pose,
drawl, nor affectation, as is so common in and
around Fenchurch Street.  He dressed quietly, and
his manners were gentlemanly without being
obtrusive.  He spoke little and listened always.  In
Marigold's eyes he was the type of a perfect modern
gentleman—as indeed he was.

City life, with its morning rush to business from
the suburbs and its evening scramble for a seat in
'bus, train or tram, is to the business girl a wearing
existence.  The tubes, with their queux, the trains
with their packed compartments, the 'buses with their
boorish attendants, and the trams crowded to suffocation
with either rain-wet or perspiring humanity, are
part of the life of a London business girl.  Yet she
is always merry and bright, for she takes things as
they come and thrives upon a gobbled breakfast or
a belated home-coming.

Marigold Ramsay was typical of the London
female bank clerk—eager, reliable, assiduous at her
work, which consisted of poring over big ledgers all
day beneath a green-shaded electric light until the
figures—units, tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of
thousands, and hundreds of thousands—danced before
her tired eyes ere she closed her book and put on
her hat to return home.

On the night following the receipt of that
gratifying message, she rushed back to Wimbledon
wondering if any further telegram awaited her.

But there was none.  In disappointment she sat
down to her evening meal, the one problem in her
mind being the whereabouts of the young man who
was her lover and who had so mysteriously left her
side and disappeared.

He could not be following Boyne, for the latter
was living quite calmly his usual uneventful life,
therefore, if he were not following him, why could
he not write to her and explain?

That point sorely perplexed her.

Meanwhile Ena Pollen telephoned twice a day to
Golder's Green to inquire how her friend
Mrs. Morrison progressed, and on each occasion the
matron would answer her, but the news was of
increasing gravity.

She sent kind messages, but the matron
expressed regret that the patient was too ill to be
given them.

On the evening when Marigold had sped back
to Wimbledon hoping for a further telegram, Miss
Propert had, after telling the Red Widow how critical
was Mrs. Morrison's condition, added that some
relatives had come up from Brighton.

"Unfortunately, the doctor will not allow anyone
to see her," she went on.  "Only this evening I
have had a telegram from her sister in Scotland
saying she is on her way to London, but as she gives
no address, I am unable to stop her, so her journey
will be useless."

"Useless?  Why?" asked Ena.

"Well—I'm sorry to tell you that the doctor who
saw her an hour ago holds out but little hope of her
recovery.  She has diphtheria in its most virulent
form."

"Oh!  How terrible!" cried Ena.  "But is it
really so very serious?"

"Yes.  There is no use disguising the fact.  It
is a most critical case."

"But, surely, there is no immediate danger?" she
asked, full of concern.

"The critical period will be within the next
twenty-four hours," came the reply.  "If she gets
over to-morrow night, she will probably recover."

Ena Pollen held her breath, while her brows
narrowed, and she made a strange grimace.

"Well, Miss Propert, you won't fail to let me
know how my friend is—will you?"

"Of course not," was the reply.  "I hope she will
be better to-morrow morning.  But—well, personally,
I entertain but little hope.  I have never seen a
worse case of diphtheria."

Ena hung up the receiver, and crossing the room,
took a long sniff at her smelling-salts.

Then, going back to the telephone, she rang up
Lilla, and said briefly:

"Our poor friend is very bad indeed.  I'll let you
know how she is in the morning.  Is Bernard
there?"

"No; he's just gone back," answered her friend.

"Well, I want you both to dine here to-morrow
night.  Will you?"

"Why?"

"You know the reason—*surely*!"

"Oh, yes—yes!  Very well, dear.  At half-past
seven."

So that was agreed.

Next morning, just before noon, Boyne called at
Pont Street and learned from Lilla—who had just
spoken to Ena—that Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn
was in an extremely critical condition.

"H'm!" grunted her husband.  "Then all goes
as it should—eh?  No other acute disease presents
so great a liability to sudden death as diphtheria.  I
suppose the doctor, whoever he is, has been all along
examining the patient's heart for any indication of
an approaching catastrophe."

"But sudden death can't take place—can it?"
asked Lilla.

"Oh, yes," replied her husband in a voice of
authority.  "The more insidious forms of sudden
death from diphtheria take place through the nervous
system and heart.  In such a case the pulse beats only
twenty or thirty a minute—and that is probably what
has aroused the doctor's fears."

"But, according to Ena, she hasn't a very bad
throat."

"That may be so," he said, speaking in the way
of a medical man.  "She may have an extension of
the false membrane into the air passage, which would
block the larynx trachea or bronchi, which is always
gradual, and may be fatal.  But if the doctor has
come to the conclusion that she's in a very bad way,
I should think that the end will come this evening."

"You'll dine at Ena's—eh?"

"Of course I will.  I'll be there just after seven,"
he said, and, after leisurely finishing a cigarette, he
left her.

Just before half-past seven he entered Ena Pollen's
flat, where Lilla was already seated in the drawing-room.
He wore a simple blue serge suit, for that
night he had come straight from Hammersmith, and
had not dressed to go to a restaurant or the theatre.

"Well?" he asked the Red Widow.  "Anything fresh?"

"Nothing.  I telephoned to Golder's Green an
hour ago, and found Miss Propert was most
despondent."

"Poor dear!" laughed Lilla.  "What a pity!
Her bill will be paid all right—so she needn't fret!"

Presently they sat down to a very pleasant little
dinner, where, with sardonic laughter, the trio of
death-dealers lifted their glasses of champagne to
"dear Augusta's speedy recovery."

After dinner they returned to the drawing-room,
where they took their liqueurs and coffee, all three
being in excellent spirits.

The only serious moment was when the Red
Widow suddenly remarked:

"I don't half like the situation concerning that
young fellow Durrant!  Do you know, I feel some
strange presage of evil—I mean that we may have
made a slip there."

"Slip!" laughed Boyne derisively.  "Nothing
of the kind, my dear Ena!  I saw to that all right.
And surely you can trust me?"

"But suppose we have?"

"No need to worry further about him.  He won't
trouble us any more."

"The next person to be silenced is that girl,"
Lilla said in a hard voice.

"Yes," was Boyne's slow reply.  "I think I've
formed a plan which will be just as successful as
that we carried out concerning her too inquisitive
lover."

And as he spoke, he blew a cloud of smoke
from his lips and watched it curl towards the
ceiling.

Suddenly—it was then about ten o'clock—almost
as the words fell from his lips, the telephone bell rang
sharply.

All three started.

"Ah!" gasped Ena, springing up.  "There you
are!  At last!"

"Yes," she replied, taking up the receiver.
Then, listening, she exclaimed: "Oh! you, Miss
Propert—well?  Oh!  How dreadful!—how very
sad!  She passed away ten minutes ago!  Thank
you so much for telling me.  I'm so sorry—so very
sorry!"

And she replaced the receiver.

"You look sorry!" laughed Boyne.  "Really, it
is most distressing to think that we shall very soon
draw ten thousand pounds!" he added mockingly,
whereat the two women laughed gaily, for the coup
so elaborately prepared had at last been brought off!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WHAT HAPPENED TO GERALD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   WHAT HAPPENED TO GERALD

.. vspace:: 2

The days passed, and Marigold, hearing nothing
further from Gerald, called again at Mincing Lane,
and there learned that they had not heard again
from young Durrant.

A clerk had been sent over to Ealing to inquire
about him, but had returned with the information
that, instead of being ill, he had not been seen by
his sister.

"The firm at once suspected something wrong
with the books," said the female clerk of whom she
made the inquiry, "but Mr. Durrant was such an
honest, straightforward young man that we all
ridiculed the idea."

"Have the books been examined?" asked
Marigold breathlessly.

"Oh, yes; and nothing has been found wrong."

The girl drew a sigh of relief.

She then showed the clerk the telegram she had
received from Birmingham, and she, in turn,
promised to show it to the principal when he came
in.

Marigold Ramsay walked down Mincing Lane
to Fenchurch Street in gloom and despair.  She
returned to the bank and sat at her books, unable
to work, unable to do anything, save to wonder why
Gerald had so suddenly left her.  Yet he had bidden
her not to worry over him and had promised to
return.

That evening she went over to Hammersmith,
and her aunt, noticing how pale and worried she
looked, inquired the reason, asking:

"Have you heard yet from Mr. Durrant?"

"No, auntie.  Unfortunately, I haven't, but I'm
expecting to hear every day."

"Funny he went away like that, wasn't it?" the
deaf old woman remarked, though inwardly she
suspected that there had been some quarrel between
them, and that he had left her in consequence.

"Yes," replied the girl faintly.  Then she asked
after Mr. Boyne.

"Oh! he's been away four days now.  He said
he was going into Wales on some insurance
business, and would be away a week or perhaps ten
days."

"Unusual for him to go away, isn't it?" Marigold
remarked.

"Yes.  He's never been away for more than a
week together in all the time I've been with him."

The girl left Hammersmith early, and, returning
to Wimbledon Park, sat at her window and wept
for a long time before retiring to rest.  To her the
world was empty and hopeless without Gerald.

What had she done, she wondered, that he
should have left her in that fashion.  That he was
following Boyne was a mere excuse, she felt sure.
It irritated her to think that he should try to deceive
her.  What was he doing in Birmingham?  If there
were reasons why he did not wish to return to
London, then why did he not give her his address,
and then she could easily have run up to see him.

The more she thought it over the more mystified
did she become.

The mystery was increased three days later when,
on returning from the City, she found a telegram
on the table in the narrow hall.

Her heart leapt as she tore it open.

It had been sent from Paris, of all places, and
read:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Sorry could not write, dear.  Do not worry.
Shall be back soon.  Have wired to the office.
Love.*—GERALD."

.. vspace:: 2

"Love!—Gerald!" she repeated aloud to herself.
"Oh! why does he not give me an address,
so that I can write to him?  It's cruel—very cruel
of him to keep me in suspense like this!" she cried
in a frenzy of despair.

She ate sparingly in the little dining-room of the
jerry-built villa—for nowhere is the jerry-builder
more in evidence than in Wimbledon Park, with his
white-painted gables and his white-painted balconies
to his six-roomed houses.  But let us not misunderstand.
It is best for the workers—the brains and
backbone of England—to live in smiling houses,
even though jerry-built, than in many of those grey,
rain-sodden houses of the Midlands and the North,
where the "knocker-up" pursues his calling each
dawn and the factory hooter sounds all too early.

Personally, the writer here declares that he has
no love for the capitalist.  The latter has too often,
ever since the Early Victorian days, been either a
swindler or an aristocrat of bad intentions, and the
jerry-builder was the natural outcome of his parting
with his estate.

Poor Marigold!  She could go no farther in the
maze of doubt and uncertainty.

A dozen times that night she re-read the
mysterious, but unconvincing, message.  She was a
girl of high intelligence, or she would not have been
employed by the bank.  The whole affair puzzled
her, as it would indeed have puzzled anybody.

Next day after her luncheon she went round again
to Mincing Lane, and made inquiry regarding the
missing man.

The same girl told her that the principal had
received a mysterious wire from Paris.

"I saw the telegram," she said.  "It was from
Paris, and was quite abrupt, saying that he would
probably return in a week or so."

"But what does it all mean?" asked the
distressed girl.

"I really don't know," replied the other girl.
"Mr. Durrant's gone away, and that's all!"

That night Marigold went over to Ealing, and to
Gerald's sister she showed the telegram.  It puzzled
her sorely.

"Whatever can Gerald be doing in Paris?" she
exclaimed.  "Why could he not write to us, eh?"

"I don't know," was the reply of the unnerved
girl.  "I think he ought to send us some address."

"But he may do so later," replied his sister.
"Gerald is a man of business.  He would realise how
troubled we all are."

"He seems to have faded out of existence," said
the girl, seated in the front parlour of the neat little
villa of the neat suburban road.

"Yes," said his sister.  "He certainly does.  I
await a letter each morning, but none comes."

"But what can he be doing in Paris?" queried
Marigold.  "Without a doubt, he has lost the confidence
of his firm.  He pretended to be lying ill here,
and they have found out that he isn't ill at all!"

"Yes.  The other day a middle-aged man came
to see him, but I was forced to admit that he wasn't
here—that he was missing," replied Gerald's sister.

Marigold went home utterly dispirited.  What
could she do?  It was useless to go to the police and
raise a hue and cry regarding a man who, from time
to time, telegraphed to his employers and to her that
he was on the point of returning.  So she was
compelled to wait.

Gerald Durrant had disappeared.  He had sent
her messages, it is true, messages of comfort, yet
when she argued within herself, she saw that he ought,
at least, to have given her some address to which she
could reply by letter or by telegram.

True, Boyne was absent.  But he had only been
absent for a few days, while her lover had been
missing very much longer.

Four more days of blank despair crept slowly by.
Seated beneath her green-shaded light at the bank,
with her great ledger before her, Marigold reckoned
up the columns of figures mechanically, and handed
them to be checked.  They were accounts of all
classes of merchants, mostly of profiteers, firms who
had made fortunes out of the valour and blood of the
gallant fellows who had given their lives for Britain.
She felt so unhappy without her lover.  Gerald,
who had directed those investigations concerning the
hooded man who was her aunt's employer, had
disappeared with startling suddenness, yet he had
assured her that he was following some mysterious clue.

The latter she had proved, by reason of the
knowledge of Boyne's movements, to be non-existent.
Was her lover deceiving her?  That suspicion caused
her the greatest irritation and annoyance.

That evening she sauntered along Pont Street,
and looked up at the red-brick house which Boyne
had entered on that well-remembered night.  But the
place was in complete darkness, save for a light in
the servants' quarters.

Then again she went to Bridge Place, and
learned from the old deaf woman that her master had
not yet returned.

"He's having a very nice long holiday," said
Mrs. Felmore.  "And he deserves it, too—a-tramping
about Hammersmith all day and in all weathers,
as he does."

Three weeks went past, but no further word had
come from Gerald, either to his principal, his sister,
or to his well-beloved.

Gerald Durrant had, truth to tell, met with some
strange and startling adventures since the night of
his disappearance.

In the darkness on that well-remembered night
he was walking along the Kensington Road towards
Knightsbridge, following Boyne at a respectful
distance, and keeping a wary eye upon him, without
arousing any suspicion as he naturally believed.

While passing the railings of Kensington Gardens,
close to Queen's Gate, he saw a female figure
lying upon the pavement with a lady bending over
her concernedly.

Hastening up, he found both ladies to be well
dressed, and inquired what had occurred.

"Oh, dear!" cried the elder lady, in great
distress.  "My sister has just slipped down on a piece
of banana peel, I think, and she's broken her ankle.
She can't move, and she doesn't speak.  She has
fainted.  I—I wonder, sir, if you would be so kind
as to call me a taxi."

"Certainly I will," replied Gerald, with his usual
gallantry.  "If you'll stay here, I'll go back to the
rank.  I passed it a few minutes ago, and there was
a taxi there."

So he dashed back, got into the cab, and was
soon on the spot where the lady, who had recovered
consciousness, was standing on one foot, unable to
put the other to the ground.

"It's so extremely kind of you," said the elder
lady, while the injured one expressed faint thanks.
Then, assisted by the driver, the lady was seated in
the conveyance.

"I really don't know how I shall get her up the
stairs," exclaimed the elder woman.  "We live in a
flat up at Hampstead and we have no hall-porter."

Gerald reflected a second, and suddenly recollected
that Boyne was now out of sight, so that by
that unfortunate accident he was prevented from
further following him.

"I shall be very pleased to accompany you, and
give you what assistance I can," he said.  "May I
get in?"

"Certainly.  It's too kind of you," the injured
lady declared.  "I fear we are encroaching upon your
time, but the taxi can bring you back to wherever
you want to go."

So Gerald got in, while the elder lady gave the
man an address at Hampstead—some mansions, the
name of which he did not catch, for, at the moment,
he was in conversation with her sister.  All he
recollected were the words:

"It's close to Hampstead tube station."

Next moment they drove off, whereupon the elder
lady introduced herself as Mrs. Evans, and her sister
she said was Miss Mayne.

"We live together," she went on.  "My husband
was unfortunately killed on the Somme, so we are
companions for each other."

Meanwhile Miss Mayne was evidently suffering
extreme pain.

"I'm so sorry, dear," her sister exclaimed.  "But
as soon as we get home, I'll ring up for Doctor
Trueman.  He'll no doubt soon set it right."

"Can you move your ankle, Miss Mayne?" asked
Gerald, who had, in turn, already given the two
ladies his name.

"Unfortunately, no—not in the least.  To try to
move it causes me excruciating pain.  I really don't
know what I shall do."

"Oh!  Surgeons nowadays are wonderful," exclaimed
Gerald cheerily.  "Probably it is only a
simple sprain.  At least, let us hope so."

So completely engaged in conversation was
Gerald, that he did not notice along what thoroughfare
they were travelling.  Indeed, the driver had
taken an intricate route behind Regent's Park, a
district quite unknown to the young man.

From the ladies he learned that they had been
dining with a lady living in Phillimore Place, and
were on their way back to Knightsbridge tube
station on their return home when the accident
happened.  That they were refined, well-bred ladies was
unquestionable, therefore he was genuinely concerned.

At last the taxi stopped before the entrance to a
large block of inartistic-looking flats, and with
difficulty Miss Mayne descended.  Then, assisted by the
driver and Gerald, she, with great difficulty,
ascended to the first floor, while her sister opened the
door with her latch-key, and switched on the light.

Within it was a cosy, well-furnished abode, just
as one would expect to be the home of two refined
women of good position.

Mrs. Evans paid the driver, giving him half a
sovereign over his fare, and saying:

"I shall want you to take this gentleman back
to the West End presently.  So wait!"

"Very well, mum," replied the man, pleased with
his tip, who then retired.

Then, turning to Gerald, she said:

"You'll stay a few minutes, won't you?  I'll
telephone to the doctor."  This she did, the telephone
being out in the hall, and while he sat with Miss
Mayne in the small drawing-room, he heard her
sister in conversation with Doctor Trueman.

"He'll be here in about a quarter of an hour!"
she exclaimed, as she re-entered the room.  "How
fortunate, dear, to find him in!"

"Yes.  I——  Oh!  I do hope he'll give me
something to dull this terrible pain'" replied the
other.

"No doubt he will," said Gerald encouragingly.
"It is too bad of people to throw fruit peel about the
pavements.  I've had more than one narrow escape
from falling myself."

"It's positively criminal!" declared Mrs. Evans,
with warmth.  "Of course you'll stop now, and see
what he says.  Mr. Durrant," she went on, "I'm
only too happy to have been of service to you."

"You'll have something?" she suggested.  "I'm
just going to get my sister a little brandy, and I'll
get you a whisky and soda."

"No, thanks—all the same," Gerald replied.
"The fact is I never drink whisky."

"Then a glass of port wine," she laughed gaily.
"You won't refuse that—have it, to please me, won't
you?"

He tried to protest, but she overruled him, and
in the end he was forced to accept the glass of wine
which a few minutes later she brought him upon a
small silver salver, together with her sister's liqueur
glass of old brandy.

She took nothing herself, but stood chatting as
Durrant and her sister sipped their glasses.

"That's some very old port that was lately given
to me by a friend," she explained.  "Being a woman, I
know nothing of wines, but we had a man dining here
with us the other night who pronounced it first-class."

"Yes," Gerald said.  "It is excellent, though I,
too, have no knowledge of wines, which I always
think is generally pretended save in the case of men
with acute palates who are in the import trade.  The
man who to-day can sip a glass and tell its vintage
is a *rara avis*," he declared.

Mrs. Evans agreed with him.

She watched him drain his glass with satisfaction,
and then urged him to have a second one.  But
he refused, for, as a matter of fact, he found a strange
sensation creeping over him.  Though he did not
mention it, being too polite, he felt across his eyes
a slow, but increasing, blindness.  Objects seemed
to be receding from his gaze.  The muscles of his
throat seemed to be contracting, and he felt his cheeks
hot and flushed.

He tried to stir himself in his chair, but he
seemed paralysed.  He could not move!

He endeavoured to speak, to tell the two ladies
of his sudden seizure, but his tongue refused to
articulate a word.

In his desperate efforts to ask them to call assistance,
his hands pawed the air convulsively, and then,
of a sudden, he felt himself collapsing, and all
became blank.

Meanwhile the two women were watching him
intently, and the instant they satisfied themselves
that he was unconscious, Miss Mayne—who was
really Lilla Braybourne, sat where she was, while
Mrs. Evans, who was Ena Pollen, the Red Widow—jumped
up from her chair, saying eagerly:

"All's well up till now!  I must tell Bernie."

She dashed to the telephone, and, asking for a
number, spoke rapidly:

"Lilla speaking," she said.  "Bernie.  He's here,
and he's been taken suddenly ill.  You'd better come
round at once."

She listened.  Then she said:

"Right—you'll get here in a quarter of an hour.
He's asleep now!"

Then the pretended invalid and her pseudo-sister,
leaving Gerald in the drawing-room, where he had
collapsed so suddenly after drinking the glass of
"doctored" port, went into the dining-room and
mixed themselves a stiff brandy and soda each.

Afterwards the Red Widow, descending to where
the taxi was waiting, gave the man another ten
shillings, and said:

"The gentleman has changed his mind.  He's
staying here."

"All right, mum," the man replied.  "Thank you
very much.  Good-night."

Starting his engine, he drove away well satisfied.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ROOM OF EVIL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ROOM OF EVIL

.. vspace:: 2

A quarter of an hour later Bernard Boyne stood in
the room where Gerald Durrant lay back in the
arm-chair, pale as death, quite unconscious.

"So you tried to get the better of me, my young
friend, did you?" he laughed, as he stood before the
inanimate figure.  "But you dropped into the trap
just as I intended.  I could easily put you out of the
way, you infernal young prig, but it might be
dangerous."

"No, no!" cried Ena anxiously.  "The body
would be found.  And Scotland Yard may possibly
find traces of us.  No!  Carry out your plan—telegrams,
a motor-car journey, a pretty story—and
good-bye-ee!"

"Yes.  But this fellow, and the girl who is in
love with him, are distinct dangers, remember!"

"True.  But it was the girl who aroused his
suspicions.  Send her underground, if you like, and as
soon as you like, for none of us have any love for her,
have we?"

"Ena," he said, his manner suddenly changing;
"an idea regarding the girl, Marigold, has just
occurred to me—one that cannot be investigated, and
nothing can be brought up against us.  Leave her
to me!"

"Oh, we will, Bernie!  But recollect, she must
have a dose—and go out.  That's the only way to put
the tombstone over this affair.  We don't want any
unwelcome inquiries, or any resistance by the
insurance company."

"Don't fret, my dear Ena.  We shan't have any
real trouble, I assure you.  We are now dealing with
it in advance."  Then, turning to his wife, he
exclaimed: "Those necessary telegrams?  You have
them all ready.  Get busy, and send them.  I've
arranged with Jimmy, in Birmingham, and Hylda, in
Paris, to send others at certain times."

"Great Scott, Bernie!  Your brain is wonderful!"
exclaimed Ena in admiration.  "How can you think
out all these details in such a short space of time?"

"When one is in danger one takes due precaution—and
at once.  I always do so," he laughed.  "This
fellow and his girl have tried to spy upon us—and
we have to deal with them as they would deal with
us.  If they discovered anything they would at once
tell the police, and very soon our game would be up.
Hence, we have to put matters square at the least
possible risk to ourselves," he added.

He took up the glass from which Gerald had
drunk the excellent port, and carried it into the small
kitchen, where he carefully washed it.  Afterwards
Ena handed him a small phial which he also carefully
washed, and then half filled it with something
he took from his pocket.  The bottle was full of that
cheap, but pungent, perfume—oil of verbena.  When
he had half filled the small bottle, he corked it and
placed it in a cupboard in the kitchen, thus removing
all trace of the deleterious liquid which the little
phial had previously contained.

Lilla had gone out, but half an hour later she
drove up to the door in a small open car.  The
manner in which she pulled up showed her to be a
good driver.

The inhabitants of the whole block of flats—those
houses piled upon one another, which are admittedly
cheap to run, but which are so very expensive from
a health point of view—were asleep when, assisted
by the two women, and treading softly, they placed
Durrant in the car, heavy and unconscious owing
to the drug which had been given him.

Lilla then mounted to the driver's seat, and,
leaving Ena to close the flat and return to Upper Brook
Street as best she could, Boyne and his wife, with
their unconscious victim in the bottom of the car,
sped out across Hampstead Heath, and northward
upon the Great North Road.

Not till forty-eight hours afterwards did Gerald
Durrant slowly and painfully awake to a knowledge
of his surroundings.  By that time Marigold and the
others had been reassured by the telegrams.

Gerald's first impression was of a strange, rather
healthful smell—a smell of tar.  He looked around.
The ceiling of the room was low—a ceiling which
badly required whitewashing.  Before him was a
small square window—a very small window.  And
he was lying fully dressed upon a narrow iron
bedstead.

Apparently the house was an old cottage, but
quite unfamiliar.  He tried to think, but his brain
was addled.  His memory refused to serve him.  The
sun was shining in at the window, and the little room
seemed close and stuffy.  It was the sunset, he
gathered.

Try how he would, he could recollect absolutely
nothing.  All he could recollect were the faces of
those two women whom he had assisted in their
distress.

He strove to think.  At last, he recollected how
Mrs. Evans had given him that glass of good port,
and how afterwards they had chatted together.
Then all was blank.

Of time he had no idea.  What, he wondered,
would Marigold think of his absence?  And what
would they think at the office?

His first impulse was to wire to Wimbledon Park
and to Mincing Lane.  Yes, it was imperative that
he should do so.

Yet he knew not where he was, for as he raised
himself upon his elbow from the bed, he saw that the
only look-out from the small window was a high brick
wall, apparently the wall of a warehouse.  The room
was dusty and uncleanly.  There was no carpet—nothing
save a very ragged square of black-and-white
linoleum.  He got up and, dazed as he was, he tried
the door.  It was strongly bolted from without!

He shouted—yelled at the top of his voice, but
nobody came.  Upon the little deal table he saw
something which told him that he was a prisoner—a
jug containing some water, and a plate with some
unwholesome-looking cooked meat and some bread.

He examined them with a rising feeling of
indignation.  Then, in a fury, he raised a heavy wooden
chair, and savagely attacked the door.  Time after
time, he took it by its leg and banged it upon the
door, making a tremendous noise.  Yet the strong
oak resisted every attempt, until, piece by piece, the
chair was broken up.  Then he looked around for
something stronger.  There was a rusty iron fender.
This he took up, and using it as a battering ram
struck the door repeatedly.  But the fender being of
cast iron broke in half, but made no injury to the
door.

He crossed to the window and, smashing the
glass, tried to open it.  But outside were strong iron
bars.  He was indeed a prisoner!

In desperation he flung the mattress from the
bed, and, taking down the bedstead, attacked the
door vigorously with one of the iron bars.  He used
the end—for it was hammered out—as a crowbar and
succeeded after long effort in inserting it between
the door and the lintel, but so well was it secured by
bolts that he had no power to force it open, and in
the end the thin iron bent, and thus became useless.

Presently he hammered on the floor, and tried to
awaken somebody, still all to no purpose.  In the
meanwhile, darkness was falling and soon he would,
he knew, be without light.  Notwithstanding that his
head was aching terribly, and there was a feeling as
though his skull was slowly being crushed in a vice,
he set to work to liberate himself in another way.

He tore aside the old linoleum, and succeeded in
forcing up one of the dirty floor-boards.  This he
followed by another, and yet a third, until below
was revealed the plaster of the ceiling of the room
underneath.

Then, taking a heavy piece of the bedstead, he
struck down with all his might.

The iron struck the plaster, but, contrary to his
expectation, he was unable to force a hole through the
ceiling.  Then, suddenly, to his dismay, he discovered
that what he had believed to be plaster was
concrete—that the floor was a fireproof one, and that
being so, any attempt to penetrate it without proper
tools was foredoomed to failure.

He gazed about him, utterly bewildered.

What could have happened after he had drunk
that glass of port so kindly offered him by the
handsome Mrs. Evans?  That he was in the hands of
enemies it was plain, but who were they?  He wondered
whether his incarceration in that place had any
connection with his inquisitiveness concerning
Bernard Boyne.

He reflected.  Boyne had not been cognisant of
being followed.  He was convinced of that.  Had he
been so, he would not have paid those nocturnal visits
to Pont Street and Upper Brook Street.

In the evening light he stood utterly perplexed.
At his feet he saw that the boards were discoloured
by a large brown stain some three feet in diameter.
One part of it was thick, as though dark paint had
been spilled there.  He bent to examine it more
closely, and from the wood scraped a portion of the
thick substance with his finger-nail.

The stuff seemed curiously sticky, very much like
paint.  He took it across to the window, and there
examined it minutely in the light, rubbing it between
his thumb and forefinger.

Next moment a cry of horror escaped him.
"Great Heavens!" he gasped.  "Why—it's blood!"

Apparently there had been a pool of blood there,
but it had nearly all dried up, save that portion which
had not yet become completely hardened.

What could it mean?

He returned to the spot which had been immediately
beneath where he had lain upon the bed.  Had
some previous occupant of that barred room been
foully done to death while sleeping?  It certainly
seemed that such was the explanation.

"Who brought me here, I wonder?" he said
aloud to himself, as the ghastly suggestion crept over
him.  "What is Marigold thinking of my disappearance?
What can they think of it at the office?"

Across the narrow room he paced in frantic anger
at having been so entrapped without the slightest
motive.  The dead silence of the place oppressed
him.  Without knowledge of where he was, either
in London or in the country, he set his teeth and
regretted the moment when he went to the assistance
of the two women.  Yet, surely, they could have
nothing to do with his detention there?  The absence
of motive held him completely perplexed.

In the fast-fading light he made a complete and
minute inspection of that chamber wherein he had
made the gruesome discovery.  If someone had really
been done to death in that place recently, then there
might be other traces of the tragedy.  Further, how
was he to know that he, in turn, would not fall a
victim!

Hastily, because the light was going, he turned
out a cupboard, but found nothing save a quantity
of newspapers.  Some rubbish in the rusty fireplace
he examined, but his search there was also fruitless.

Then he turned his attention to a long, narrow
double-doored cupboard let into the wall close to the
bed.  One door was bolted from within, and the other
locked.  To force it open was only the work of a
few moments.  Within he found a quantity of
feminine apparel of good quality, a skirt, shoes, and
other things.

One object which he took up caused him to ejaculate
another cry of horror, and to hold his breath.

He carried it across to the broken window, and
there bent to see if what he suspected was the actual
truth.

Yes!  He satisfied himself that it was.  What
he held in his hand was a woman's cream *crêpe-de-chine*
blouse, prettily trimmed with lace, but the
neck, chest, and all over the left sleeve were stained
with blood!

"Then the victim was a woman!" he gasped aloud.

Quickly he examined all the other articles of
attire, but found no traces of blood upon any other.
He decided to keep his knowledge to himself, so
that when he escaped, as he intended to do, he might
at once inform the police of what he had found.
Therefore he instantly set to work to replace the
floor-boards, and recover them with the old piece of
linoleum which hid the great ugly stain.  Then,
restoring the room to order in the best way possible,
he replaced the blouse and the other feminine
garments where he had found them, and was able—after
a great deal of difficulty, for it was nearly dark—to
place the two doors of the cupboard together in
such a way that they closed, so that all trace of them
being forced was thus removed.

That some unknown woman had recently lost her
life in that place was now quite certain.  After he
had put the place in order again—all save re-erecting
the bedstead, for this could not be done, neither could
he mend the broken chair—he stood in the darkness
pondering.  It was impossible to remain in that
horrible place all night.  If he slept he might be
attacked, as the poor woman had probably been.  And
in his half-dazed condition he needed sleep badly.

His one thought was of Marigold.

"What will she think, poor girl!" he cried aloud
in his anguish.  "What has she done now that I
am missing?"

He listened.  There was no sound save the chiming
of a church clock in the distance, followed by the
shrill whistle of a locomotive.  Then he heard the
long-drawn siren of a ship repeated three times, but
some distance away.  Evidently the place was near
a river, or perhaps by the sea.  That would account
for the smell of tar.

Then all became quiet again.  The silence and
darkness began to get upon his nerves until he could
stand it no longer.  The thought that a dark tragedy
had been perpetrated upon that very spot where he
stood filled him with horror.

Therefore at last he again went to the window,
and began to send up some unearthly yells in a fierce
endeavour to attract the attention of somebody
outside.

Time after time he repeated his shouts, but
nobody answered.  He could hear the voices of two
common women gossiping, and though he could not
see them he shouted to them.  But they only deigned
to yell back.

"Oh, shut up!  Do shut up—whoever you are!"

Suddenly he recollected that drunken brawls and
cries for help are only too frequent in lower-class
neighbourhoods, therefore his cries for assistance,
though they must be heard, were being disregarded.

So he desisted, and resolved to remain patient a
further quarter of an hour, and then resume his cries
for help.

He was standing in the darkness near the window
when a slight and curious movement behind him
caused him to turn sharply.

Beneath the door he saw a light, but whoever was
there wore rubber soles to their shoes, for they made
no sound.  The slight noise which had fallen upon
his strained ears was the slow and stealthy drawing
of a bar outside the door.

Someone was creeping noiselessly in!

On tiptoe he crossed, and, seizing the bar of iron,
sprang behind the door, his hand raised ready to fell
any person who entered.

The handle of the door was very slowly turned,
but next second—ere he became aware of it—a
strange thing happened.





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.. _`LOST DAYS`:

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   CHAPTER XXI


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   LOST DAYS

.. vspace:: 2

As the door of the room in which he was imprisoned
slowly opened, and he stood ready to attack the
new-comer and fight for his liberty, he became suddenly
blinded and rendered utterly powerless by a burst of
heavy grey smoke.

He drew one whiff of it, and, reeling, fell
senseless upon the floor.

Then, as the fumes which had rendered him unconscious
slowly cleared, there stood in the dim light
a form wearing an exact replica of the white cloak
and hood which Bernard Boyne used when he visited
that upstairs room in Hammersmith.  The window
being broken, and now that the door was open too, the
fumes quickly dispersed, yet Gerald lay there where
he had fallen, pale as death, and breathing only
slightly.

"A heavy dose!" laughed the hooded man
grimly.  "He won't get over it for quite a long
time!"

And then he turned and left, leaving the door
still open, so that all trace of the poisonous vapour
which he had released from a heavy iron cylinder
should be removed.

An hour later he returned, but without his cloak,
for the gas-mask was no longer needed.  He carried
an electric torch, which he flashed into the white face
of the unconscious victim.

"You'll soon go away—never to return!"
growled the mysterious man aloud; and then
suddenly by the reflection of the light his face became
revealed.

It was Bernard Boyne.

"The fellow knows too much—and so does the
girl!" he muttered to himself.  "We must deal with
her next.  But she's not yet dangerous.  Still, as
Lilla says, in our business we can't afford to take any
risks.  So stay there for the present, my friend," he
added.

And bending he felt the prostrate man's pulse in
the professional manner of a medical man.  Then,
apparently well satisfied, he crossed the room, closed
the window and, after locking the door outside again,
descended the stairs.

When young Durrant at last began to slowly
recover his senses, he awakened to find himself seated
in an arm-chair in a small and not uncomfortable
cabin on board a ship.  The vessel was rolling
heavily, and ever and anon the waves swept up past
the porthole, partially obscuring the light.

He drew his hand across his fevered brow and
endeavoured to think.  But all was hazy, uncertain,
and unreal.  Was he still dreaming? he asked
himself.  He placed both his hands upon the arms of the
leather-covered chair and felt them.  No!  It was
no dream!  He was on a ship at sea!

Suddenly across his brain swept recollections of
that room in which he had been imprisoned—that
gruesome chamber with its unmistakable evidence of
a tragedy—the place in which some unknown woman
had been foully done to death.  He remembered his
meeting with those two ladies outside Kensington
Gardens, their hospitality and its dire result.  At any
rate, there was one satisfaction, that his enemies,
whoever they were, had spared his life.

He rose, his limbs feeling very sore and stiff.
How long had elapsed since he had so suddenly met
that mysterious burst of smoke he had no idea.  Nor
had he any knowledge of where he had been, or
where that room of tragedy was situated.  All
remained a complete blank.

In rising to his feet he nearly fell owing to the
heavy roll of the vessel—a steamer evidently, for he
could feel the vibration of the engines.  Unsteadily
he opened the door, and found himself in a narrow
gangway, with several cabins on either side.
Opposite him a door stood open, revealing a burly,
dark-bearded man in uniform lounging in a chair, smoking
a pipe and reading a book.

Hearing Gerald's footsteps he turned his head.

"Hulloa!" he cried roughly.  "Got over your
drunk then, Mr. Simpson?  Come in here!"

"Thanks," was Durrant's reply.  "But I never
drink, and my name is not Simpson."

"Ah!  I thought you'd say that!  Sit down,
anyway," the captain remarked, with a good-humoured
laugh.  "Yesterday when we had a chat, you didn't
deny that your name was George Simpson, did you?"

"I don't remember having had a chat with you
yesterday," replied Gerald, amazed at the captain's
words.

"Ah!  You don't remember much, do you?  Got
a very bad memory, I know."

"No, I've got a pretty good memory, and to my
knowledge I've never seen you in my life before."

"And yet you spent last night with me, and drank
more than you ought to have done.  Whisky is a
bad thing for you, young fellow.  You should leave
it alone.  Never drink till you're forty-five.  That's
what I say."

Durrant sank into the chair, and gazed around
the captain's cabin absolutely bewildered.

"What ship is this?" he asked at last.

"You asked me that yesterday.  This is the
*Pentyrch*, of Sunderland, bound from Hull to
Singapore," was the reply.

"And we are on our way there!" gasped the
young man in blank dismay.

"Yes.  Three days out."

"Where are we now?"

"Off Finisterre."

"Will you tell me your name, Captain?" Durrant
asked quite calmly.

"Bowden—John Bowden.  And I live at Empress
Villa, Queen Street, Sunderland.  Aged forty-one;
married; two kids.  Anything more?"

"Yes, a lot," was the other's reply.

"You asked me a lot of questions about the ship
last night, and I told you.  We've got a general
cargo, and after Singapore we go to Batavia, then
to Wellington, New Zealand, and back home."

"How long shall we be away?"

"Oh! perhaps nine months—perhaps more if I
get other orders," was Bowden's breezy reply.
"This old tub ain't very fast, you know.  She isn't
one of your slap-up liners.  We never have
passengers.  I don't like 'em.  Only Mr. Morton asked
me to take you out for the benefit of your health,
and I consented."

"Mr. Morton!  Who's he?"

"A friend of yours, isn't he?"

"I don't know anyone of that name," declared
Gerald astounded.

Captain Bowden looked straight into the young
man's face for a few moments in silence, and then,
nodding his head, said:

"Ah!  Of course!"

"Why of course?" asked Gerald in annoyance at
the captain's tone.

The other only shrugged his shoulders, and
continued puffing at his big briar pipe.

Gerald was utterly mystified.

Since that moment when he had lost consciousness
in the presence of the two ladies he had assisted
until the present, all his recollections were blurred
and indistinct.  Bowden had accused him of drinking
heavily the night before.  Yet he felt certain
that he had never previously set eyes upon the
black-bearded man before him.  His unknown enemies
had spared his life, but they had sent him out upon
a nine months' voyage, evidently to get rid of him
for some reasons known to themselves.

Was Bernard Boyne at the bottom of it all?  He
wondered.  Yet Boyne could not know anything of
his efforts to unravel the mystery of his life.  How
could he possibly know?

"Look here, Captain Bowden," he said firmly at
last.  "Let us be frank with each other."

"I'm always frank, young man—too frank for
some people!" was the bluff seafarer's reply.

"Well, be frank with me.  Tell me—do you know
any man named Boyne—Bernard Boyne?"

"Never heard the name before," snapped the
other.  "What about him?"  And he crossed his
legs encased in his heavy sea-boots.

"Well, I thought perhaps you might know him,"
Durrant said.  Then, catching sight of the coat he
was wearing, he was surprised to see that it was
unfamiliar—a heavy blue-serge suit, such as he had
never before possessed.  The mystery increased as
each moment passed.

"No.  I don't know any man named Boyne.
Who and what is he?"

"He's an insurance agent at Hammersmith."

"That's somewhere in London, ain't it?"

"Yes.  I'm a Londoner."

"Oh, are you?  Yes, I thought so."

"Why did you think so?" asked Durrant.

"Because I know you come from Liverpool."

"You're trying to be funny!"

"Oh, no, I'm not!  It's you who always tries to
be funny, young fellow.  You sat with me here, in
my cabin, last night, and yet to-day you deny having
done so."

Gerald rose from his chair, intending to firmly
withstand the black-bearded fellow's ridiculous
allegations, but at that instant he felt that same
half-intoxication creeping over him, and he subsided.

"Captain Bowden, I'm sorry to tell you that I
honestly think you are lying to me," he said a
moment later.

"Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Simpson.  I
won't retort because you'll be ill if I do.  We're in
for bad weather in the Bay, I'm afraid.  Glass falling
with a run."

"I've never been to sea before," remarked Gerald
hopelessly, yet surprised that the captain should take
his challenge so mildly.

"Well, you'll get your sea-legs on this voyage,
I can tell you," laughed the heavy-jowled captain.

At that moment the first mate came in, holding
himself as he stood against the heavy rolling of the
tramp steamer.

"Cargo is shifting a bit in number four hold,
sir," he said.  "Shall I tell Jenkins to call the men
and see to it?"

"Yes.  Do what the devil you like, Hutton,"
snapped the captain.  "I see we're in for hellish
weather.  Look at the glass!"

"I noticed it half an hour ago, sir.  We shall
catch it strong after sundown."

"Yes, we shall.  Better make everything tight now."

Then, turning to Durrant, Captain Bowden,
refilling his pipe, remarked:

"That's the worst of these cursed old tubs.  But
you see, after the war they can't get new ones.  All
those labour troubles on the Clyde have interfered
with shipbuilding.  I was promised a brand-new boat
a year ago.  But she's still on the stocks.  When
she goes out I shall do the ferry trade from the
Levant to London—four weeks out and home."

"But, now tell me—who put me on board this
ship?" asked Gerald.

"Who put you on board? why, your friend, Mr. Morton."

"My friend?  Why, I don't know the man!"

Bowden smiled, and showed that he was not
convinced.

"What was this fellow Morton like?" inquired
Durrant eagerly.  "Describe him to me."

"Oh! a rather tall, lean, herring-gutted chap,
with a baldish head, and narrow little eyes," was the
reply.  "But you can't tell me that you don't know
him.  Why, you were with him when I promised
to take you on this trip."

"With him!" echoed Gerald.  "I certainly was not."

"Ah!  The worst of you, Mr. Simpson, is that
you're so forgetful," exclaimed the breezy captain.

"I'm not forgetful!" cried Durrant resentfully,
rising to his feet again, and steadying himself from
the slow roll of the ship.  "How did you come to
know this mysterious friend of mine—Morton, you
say is his name?"

"That's my affair!  You don't believe me, so why
should I bother to answer your questions?"

"I don't believe you when you say that I was
here with you yesterday," was Gerald's frank reply.

"No, because your brain is addled," laughed
Bowden deeply, knocking the ashes from his pipe.
At that moment the ship's bell clanged loudly, marking
the time.  It was eleven o'clock in the forenoon.

"Yes, it is addled, I admit," said Durrant.  "I've
been the victim of a foul plot.  I—well, let me tell
you."

"Oh!  I don't want to hear it all over again.
You've already told me twice how you assisted two
ladies in Kensington, how they took you to their
house, and gave you a dose of drug.  Then, how you
found yourself imprisoned in a house, and all that
long rigmarole.  Spare me again—won't you?" the
captain begged.

Durrant stood aghast.

"But I've never told you anything about it!" he
said.  "I've never told a living soul about my strange
adventure."

"Look here, Mr. Simpson," said the captain,
rising from his chair with slow deliberation.  "I'm
beginning to think that you're not quite in your right
senses.  You told us all about it last night in this
very cabin—how you had been entrapped, drugged,
and taken away."

"Yes.  That is quite true, but I have never told
anyone of it."

"Well, the less you say about that affair the better,
I think.  Nobody will believe you."

"But don't you think I'm telling the truth?"

"No.  I know you are not.  Morton told me that
you were obsessed by the belief that you've been the
victim of some very cunning plot, and that you were
drugged," said the captain.  "Now, just forget all
about it, and enjoy your trip!" he added
good-humouredly.

"Ah!  This person, Morton, has told you, has he?
He told you so as to discredit me when I explained
to you the truth," cried Durrant.  "But what I have
told you are the true facts."

"Oh, of course they are!" laughed the captain.

"But don't let us discuss it any more."

"Where did I come on board?"

"Why, at Hull, of course.  Four days ago."

"At Hull!" gasped Gerald.  "I have no
recollections of ever having been in Hull."

"Neither have you any recollections of ever having
been born, eh?" remarked Bowden, with biting
sarcasm.

"Did Morton bring me on board?"

"Certainly."

"And he paid you to take me on this trip?"

"No, excuse me.  We pay you.  You've signed
on as steward at a bob a day wages.  We're not
licensed to carry passengers.  The Board o' Trade
don't like such old tubs as the *Pentyrch*.  Yet she's
a good old boat, I'll say that much for her.  You'll
see England again all right, never fear—unless the
bloomin' boilers burst.  They're none too strong, I'm
afraid."

"You're not over cheerful, Captain Bowden," the
young man remarked, more puzzled than ever at the
extraordinary situation.

"Oh, I'm cheerful enough.  It's you who seems
to be a-worryin' over things."

"Well, and wouldn't you worry if you were
drugged, waking first to find yourself locked in a
strange room, and then again wakening a second time
to discover yourself at sea?"

"You want rest, my dear young fellow—rest!
And you'll get it here on the old tub.  The weather
will be better when we get along the West Coast."

"How can I send a message to London?"

"We ain't got wireless.  Too expensive for such
a hooker as this.  It means an operator with lightnin'
round his cap.  So you'll have to wait till we get to
Singapore, and then you can cable."

Wait for five or six weeks till the vessel arrived at
Singapore!  What would Marigold think?  What
was she thinking now?

He was, of course, in ignorance of those cleverly
worded and reassuring telegrams.

"Can't I get a message ashore anyhow—by signal
to one of Lloyd's stations?" he begged.

"No, you can't, for we're going straight out.
Usually we go up the Mediterranean and through
the Canal, but this trip we're going round the Cape."

"But surely you will allow me to communicate
with my friends, captain!" he urged in distress.

"You certainly could if we had orders to put in
anywhere.  But we haven't.  I can't send a letter to
my missus, for instance.  She'll know of our arrival
at Singapore because the owners will send her a line,
as they always do."

"All this is maddening!" declared Durrant,
angrily stamping his foot.

"Yes, Morton said you were a bit eccentric, and
it seems that you are!" remarked Bowden, taking
down his shiny black oilskin which had borne the
brunt of many a storm.

"I must go on the bridge—or Hutton will be
cursing," he added.  "Get your oilskin—you've got
one in your cabin—and go and have a blow on deck.
It will do you good—blow out the cobwebs, and
freshen up your memory a bit."

Gerald returned to his cabin and found a black
oilskin hanging behind the door.  He put it on and,
taking an old golf cap, ascended the hatchway to the
deck, which was, ever and anon, being drenched with
salt spray.

A glance around showed the *Pentyrch* to be a
dirty old tramp, which was loping along in the teeth
of a northerly gale.

"See yonder!" exclaimed the captain, pointing
to a little line of land.  "That's the last bit of Europe
we'll see!  To-morrow the weather will be a lot better.
Have a look round the ship before dinner.  And don't
you trouble about that marvellous plot against you.
There's nothing at all in it—take it from me!  Your
friends are all aware of your hallucinations, and they
are much pained by them.  So just keep quiet—and
rest all you can."

While Bowden ascended to the bridge to relieve
the first mate, Gerald explored the ship.  He came
across one or two rough sailors, who either wished
him a sullen "Good-day," or stared at him as though
he were some new species.

As a matter of fact, Bowden had given it out to
the crew that their passenger was an eccentric, but
harmless young man, who was labouring under the
delusion that an attempt had been made to kill him.
Hence the men's curiosity.

Gerald Durrant was unused to the sea, and in his
present unstrung condition, he was indeed scarcely
responsible for his actions.

But what the captain had told him had astounded
him.  The description of his mysterious "friend"
Morton—a man who was evidently his enemy—certainly
did not tally with that of Bernard Boyne.

Yet he could not erase from his mind the
suspicion that Boyne had had a hand in that plot by
which he had been carried away from London—just
at a moment when his presence there was so much
needed.

Again, as he stood against the hatchway gazing
wistfully at the distant French coast that was fast
disappearing, the thought suddenly occurred to him
that if his disappearance was actually due to Boyne,
then the latter must have, somehow or other,
discovered the fact that he was keeping him under
observation.

If Boyne had really found it out, then he would
also know that Marigold had been assisting him.
This would, no doubt, lead him to suspect the real
motive of her two stays at Bridge Place.

Bernard Boyne would entrap her—just as he had
been entrapped!

In his despair he saw himself powerless, either
to warn or to assist the girl he so fondly loved!





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.. _`FROM OUT THE PAST`:

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   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   FROM OUT THE PAST

.. vspace:: 2

After Boyne, his wife, and Ena Pollen—the trio
of death-dealers—received the news of the death of
Augusta Morrison, the go-to-meeting insurance agent
of Hammersmith had left the flat and gone forth into
Upper Brook Street.  He had to meet a man in the
smoke-room of the Carlton.

Suddenly, as he passed beneath a street lamp on
his way towards Park Lane, a well-dressed girl
accosted him, exclaiming with a strong French
accent:

"Ah!  M'sieur Bennett!  At last!  I have wanted
to see you for—oh! for so long—long time!"

Boyne started.  The maid, Céline, for it was she,
was the very last person in the world that he desired
to meet at that moment.  All had been successfully
conducted concerning Augusta Morrison, but here
arose the aftermath of a very ugly affair—the death
of old Mr. Martin in Chiswick.

At first he pretended not to recognise the girl who
had been paid off by Ena, for he hoped to wriggle
out of the precarious situation by bluff.

"No, no, m'sieur," cried the girl.  "Surely you
recollect me!  I am Céline—who was maid to
madame—your friend!  You remember poor
Mr. Martin—who died so suddenly—eh?" she asked.

He tried to extricate himself, but instantly it
occurred to him that she was resuming her blackmail,
and that if they were to save themselves, she
must be paid more money.  She knew something
concerning old Martin's sudden end.  That was
plain.  Therefore, she would have to be silenced.
In every walk of life to-day the blackmailer of both
sexes is to be found in one guise or another.

"And are you really Céline?" he laughed, halting
beneath the next lamp, for she had joined him
and had walked beside him.

"I am.  Madame lives in the house you have
just left.  I saw her in Melun a little time ago.  She
so kindly called upon me."

As the girl uttered these words a man joined
them, a tall, rather cadaverous-looking stranger in
black, evidently a Frenchman.

"This is Monsieur Galtier—Henri Galtier," she
explained, introducing them.

"Ah!  I recollect.  Madame told me that you are
to be married—eh, Céline?  I congratulate you," said
Boyne in an affable manner.  "Pardon my foolishness,
but at first I did not recognise you as my
friend."

The latter word was intentionally diplomatic.

"Yes, I thought you would recollect!" said the
girl.  "Is Madame upstairs?  I want so much to see
her."

"No," replied Boyne.  "She isn't.  I've just
called, but she's out."

"There are lights in her windows," remarked the
man Galtier in very good English.

"Servants, I suppose," said Boyne carelessly.
"I myself went to see her upon some business—about
some shares upon which she has asked my advice.
She's gone away for the week-end, it seems."

"H'm!" grunted the Anglo-Frenchman.  "How
are we to know that?"

"Well, I tell you so," was Boyne's blunt response.

"Do you know, M'sieur Bennett, that Madame
told me that you were dead?  That you died of
influenza, and here now you are coming from her
house!" said the good-looking French girl.

"Yes; she believed that I was dead.  I was away
on business in Italy, and some fool spread the report
that I had died in a hotel in Naples," laughed Boyne,
yet inwardly full of concern.  "But it was a shock
to her when one afternoon I called."

Céline Ténot was not convinced.  She had already
received thirty thousand francs to keep a still tongue,
but as a matter of fact her lover, Galtier, saw that it
would be interesting, in more ways than one, to probe
the mystery of the death of old Mr. Martin.

The ill-assorted trio walked together as far as
Park Lane.  At the corner the man Galtier halted,
and addressing the girl in French, said:

"We'll go back, Céline, and see if Madame is
really absent, as M'sieur Bennett alleges."

"She is away!" exclaimed Boyne angrily.
"Haven't I told you so?  Don't I want to see her
myself?"

The Frenchman laughed in his face.

"No, no, my dear m'sieur!  Do not tell any
more lies.  We saw you go in a long time ago.  You
dined there, and Madame is there.  We both want
to see her—on—on some important business!"

Bernard Boyne held his breath.  He was cornered.
He had successfully put Gerald Durrant out upon
the high seas, but here was Céline, with her lover,
watching them enter Ena's flat in order to await the
news of the death of their latest victim!

"It's surely late to do business with a lady,"
remarked Boyne, for want of something else to say.
In his excitement over the successful conclusion of
the Morrison affair, he was now met with a very
unexpected and serious contretemps.

Ena believed that she had successfully settled with
the girl, but it was evident that Galtier was a
blackmailer who intended to bleed them to the utmost.

Indeed, he had not been long in revealing his hand.

"I think, Mr. Bennett—or whatever your real
name may be—you had better drop this mask," the
Frenchman said, with a sardonic grin.  "Let us come
down to the same plane.  The fact is you're a
crook—and so am I, perhaps.  Now then!  What about it?"

"Let's walk along," the girl suggested in French.

The trio walked together, Bernard Boyne between
the pair.  They strolled down Park Lane to Hyde
Park Corner, but their conversation was mostly in
monosyllables.

Boyne was wondering how he could extricate
himself from the highly perilous situation.  It was
evident that this shrewd Frenchman, who had so
suddenly risen in the placid firmament of their future,
knew something concerning the death of old Martin.

How much did he know?  That was the question.

At first Boyne tried to fence with the pair, but
soon he saw that it was of no avail.  They both
laughed at him openly, and it was clear that they had
been watching him for several days.

"Now," slid Galtier, as they halted upon the
pavement opposite the Hyde Park tube station
"what are you going to do?  Will you take us back
to Madame, or are you going to lie to us further?
Now then!"

Boyne saw himself at a dead end.

He had never dreamed that the smart French girl
of Melun, who had been paid so handsomely by Ena,
would again resume her claims.  But, of course, the
man Galtier was behind her and had, no doubt,
prompted her.  Fortunately, they could know nothing
of the Morrison affair—or, indeed, of the clever plots
which they were conducting against other perfectly
innocent victims.  Life assurance is always a gamble,
but when one can guarantee death within dates then
one holds a winning hand every time.

"Madame isn't at home," repeated Boyne sulkily.
"Call there on Monday.  She'll be back then."

"No, my dear M'sieur Bennett," replied the clerk
from the Mairie of Chantilly.  "If we call then she
will have gone, and so will your wife."  And he
laughed lightly.  "You see, I haven't been in London
all these weeks without discovering something about
all three of you!"

"But I don't see why you should come over from
France to pry into our affairs.  What can it benefit
you?" asked Boyne, who, though excited, kept cool
with difficulty.

"Oh! never fear, it will benefit us.  We know
how and why old Mr. Martin died so unexpectedly
in Chiswick.  We shall also know, ere long, how
other insured persons have died, *mon cher ami*.  So
we had better turn back and have a little business
chat with Céline's late mistress, and with your wife.
That, perhaps, will clear the atmosphere."

"Ah!  I see you want money!  Both of you—eh?"
snapped Boyne.

"Possibly," was the hesitating reply.  "But perhaps
it would be to our better advantage to tell the
police what we know."

"That's a threat!" cried Boyne indignantly.  "I
allow no man to threaten me!" he declared boldly.
"Go back to Madame's house.  You are welcome.
I am not her keeper."

"I would prefer to deal with you first, M'sieur
Bennett."

"I don't want to have any dealings with a person
who holds out threats," was his answer.  "Madame
paid Céline because she dismissed her without
notice," he went on carelessly.  "Just act as you
wish.  And I wish you joy.  But please don't
bother me further."

He was turning away when the Frenchman rushed
after him, and stood on the pavement before him.

"Is this your final decision?" he asked fiercely,
as he barred Boyne's way.

"Yes.  You've come here to blackmail me,"
replied Boyne; "but you'll not get a sou out of me.
Why should I pay you anything?  I don't know
you!  I've never seen you before in my life!"

"But you will be very pleased to settle," snarled
the fellow in English.

"I shan't, and if you are not very careful I'll give
you in charge of the police for attempted blackmail."

"You swine!" cried Galtier between his teeth.

"The same to you, my dear friend—and a size
larger; a bigger breed!" laughed Boyne defiantly.

Both the man and the girl were silent for a few
moments, when the latter suddenly broke out into
a torrent of abuse and vituperation.

Her companion tried to calm her, but in French
she cried loudly:

"These people are assassins!  I know what I
overheard on the night when poor Monsieur Martin
died.  They killed him!  And he was always very
good to me—poor M'sieur!  Madame is a fiend!"
she went on.  "I do not want her dirty money.  I
want to see her pay the penalty which all those who
murder should pay!"

Boyne saw that his bluff had not succeeded.  He
had to deal with a very perilous situation.  A false
step might lead them all to the Old Bailey.  The
pair had evidently been watching them, and were
aware that his wife and Ena were both in the flat.

"Well," he laughed harshly, "you both appear
to be on the wrong track.  Céline has, it seems,
suspicions about something which she once overheard.
What it was, I do not know, because I wasn't
there; but I tell you, both of you, that as far as I
care you can go to the devil!  I've nothing to ask
of you—nothing to fear!

"You really mean that—eh?" cried the lank,
bony Frenchman.

"Certainly I do.  Clear out—and now at once,
otherwise I'll call the first constable and give you in
charge for attempted blackmail!" said Boyne,
standing erect before him.  "We've had foreign
blackmailers here before—lots of them—but we've no use
for them in London."

"But Madame paid me to say nothing," urged Céline.

"What Madame did does not concern me in the
least," he snapped.  "She generously gave you
something, I believe, because she considered that she had
treated you shabbily.  That's all!"

An awkward pause ensued.

"Very well," exclaimed Galtier.  "We are
enemies.  Let it be so!

"Of course we are enemies!" Boyne cried in a
defiant tone that rather nonplussed the Frenchman.

"Très bien!" he exclaimed.

"Excellent," said the wily Boyne.  "Let it be so,
as you say.  We are enemies.  So go back to Upper
Brook Street and find madame.  Go and try to blackmail
her.  Meanwhile I shall call the next constable
I meet and give you both in charge as undesirable
foreigners."

The Frenchman, however, only laughed in his
face, saying:

"Yes, do so, *mon cher ami*!  I fancy you would
regret such an action.  But we are enemies, and at
any rate, I intend to see madame, your friend."

"You want money, eh?" growled Boyne, as they
stood together on the kerb.

"Perhaps we do—and perhaps we do not.  It all
depends upon your attitude—and madame's!" he
replied, with mock politeness.  "The mystery of the
death of Monsieur Martin requires elucidating, and
Céline can do that—when it becomes necessary."

"I don't understand you," Boyne said.  "What
about the old man's death?"

"Now, that's quite enough!" cried Galtier, in
impatient anger.  "It's no use you, of all men,
pleading ignorance, Mr. Bennett.  Céline has already had
a little present from madame to keep a still tongue,
and——"

"And you want a bit more, eh?" asked Boyne bluntly.

"No.  That's just where you are mistaken, my
friend!" was the Frenchman's reply.  "Monsieur
Martin died in mysterious circumstances, of which
both madame and yourself are well aware, and it is
but right that the police should know the truth,
*otherwise we may have other people dying in a
similar manner*!"

Those last words of his caused Boyne to wince.
For what reason, if not with the object of blackmail,
had Henri Galtier and Céline Ténot come to London
and tracked them down?

He knew that Ena had been indiscreet in her
conversation after old Martin's death, but he had
believed that her visit to Melun and the payment to
the girl had put matters quite right.  It seemed to
him, however, that Céline was entirely under the
influence of that municipal employé from Chantilly,
whose attitude was decidedly hostile.

"Well," Boyne asked of the man, "if you don't
want money, what in the devil's name do you want?"

"I want to prevent you from playing any more of
your hellish tricks upon innocent people.  That's
what I want!" was the Frenchman's hard reply, in a
tone which left no doubt as to his firm intentions.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CRY IN THE NIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CRY IN THE NIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

Marigold, hoping against hope, went each day from
Wimbledon to the bank, where she sat adding and
subtracting figures—always wondering.  Each
morning, after a hurried breakfast, she dashed to the
station and hung upon a swaying strap till she got
to the City.  Each evening she repeated the same
experience home.

Gerald was missing.  No further word had come
nom him.  She waited as each day passed—waited
eagerly, but he gave no sign.  Each day she
went to eat her frugal meal at the same little place,
but his familiar figure never appeared in the
doorway, as she knew it so well.  His sister had heard
nothing, and at Mincing Lane they were beginning
to think that he had simply left his post without
notice, perhaps in order to better himself.

For Marigold the days passed wearily enough.
Where was he?  True, he had sent her reassuring
telegrams, but even they had ceased!  He had given
no address, therefore she was unable to reply.

She was, of course, in utter ignorance that her
lover was on the high seas bound for the Far East,
and that the reassuring telegrams she had received
were forgeries.

The abnormal brain of Bernard Boyne worked
quickly, and ever with criminal intent.  He was
possessed of the criminal "kink," and was also possessed
of a super-mind for the evasion of any attempt at
detection.  Such men, "Jack the Ripper" of London,
"Romer" of Madrid, "Lightning Lasky" of New
York, and the "Ermito" of Rome—all of them
famous criminals who have never been discovered by
the police of Europe, though traps were set for them
by the dozen—were exactly on a par with the humble
insurance agent of Hammersmith, the highly popular
"Busy Boyne."

One evening, three days after the news had been
forthcoming concerning the death of Mrs. Morrison,
Marigold went over to see her aunt at Hammersmith,
arriving there about seven o'clock.

"Hulloa, my dear!" shouted old Mrs. Felmore,
when she entered the downstairs kitchen.  "Well,
and how have you been, eh?  Heard anything of
Mr. Durrant yet?"

"Not a word, auntie," replied the girl wearily.

"And funny enough Mr. Boyne's gone away.  I
haven't seen him these last three days.  I can't think
where he can be.  I have a kind of feeling that
something must have happened to him," said the deaf
old woman.

"Why, auntie?" asked the girl, placing her
hand-bag upon the table and sinking into a chair.

"Well, he's never gone away like this before.  He
always tells me when he intends being away."

"When was he at home last?"

"Three days ago.  He went out in the evening,
and he's not returned.  I've had to feed poor little
Nibby, or he'd be starving," replied the woman.

"Yes, auntie, it is curious that Mr. Boyne isn't
back."

"It's so lonely here.  I get such creepy feelings
at night, dear," said the woman.  "It's bad enough
to be here all day alone, but—well, I don't know,
but I have a feeling that something is going to
happen."

That feeling would have been greatly increased
had she but known that, not ten minutes before, Boyne
had stood at the corner of the street and watched the
girl enter his house.  Indeed, he had waited outside
the bank, and had seen Marigold come out.  Then
he had followed her, and with satisfaction, when she
had taken the underground to Hammersmith.

As he followed her in the crowd along the street,
he muttered some sinister words beneath his breath:

"I have dealt with your lover, young lady," he
growled to himself.  "Now I must lose no time in
dealing with you.  You have only yourselves to
blame for trying to poke your noses into my private
affairs!"

Then he watched her disappear down the area
steps, and afterwards crossed the bridge, and made
a call upon a man he knew who lived in Castelnau
Mansions.

Old Mrs. Felmore got her niece some cold meat
and tea, for the girl had taken off her coat and hat,
having decided to spend the evening with her aunt.

Much of their conversation concerned Gerald
Durrant.  The abrupt manner of his departure was,
of course, a complete mystery, but the old woman
inwardly had her doubts.  What more likely than
that Durrant, like so many other young men, had
grown suddenly tired of Marigold and had "faded
out," sending those reassuring telegrams in order to
lighten the blow which he knew the poor girl would
receive?  This, indeed, was her fixed opinion, though
naturally she said nothing of it to her niece.

"Auntie," said the girl presently, "I can't help
feeling that something serious has happened to
Gerald.  I seem to become more apprehensive day by
day, until I can't work—I can only sit and
think—and think!"

"No, no, dearie," exclaimed the old woman cheerfully.
"You mustn't let it get on your nerves.  Those
telegrams he sent told you not to worry.  And I
wouldn't—if I were you!  It will all come right in
the end."

"Ah!" sighed the girl.  "Will it?—that is the
question.  Time is going by, and we hear nothing."

"He's probably in Paris—or somewhere—on some
confidential business for his firm."

"But his firm know nothing of his whereabouts."

"Well, if he had gone on some secret business
they would naturally profess ignorance," the woman
pointed out.

"Do you know, I'm half inclined to go to the
police and consult them," Marigold said.

"Ah!  That's not a bad idea!" her aunt replied.
"Go to the head police-station just outside the
Broadway, and ask their opinion.  They would take his
description and advise you what to do, no doubt.  I'd
go to-morrow."

"I shan't have time to-morrow," the girl said.
"I'll go round now.  It's only nine o'clock."  And,
putting on her hat and coat, she went along to the
headquarters of the T Division of Metropolitan Police.

But as she passed along the streets a dark figure
went noiselessly behind her—the sinister figure of
Bernard Boyne.  She was going in the direction of
the Underground Railway station, hence he
concluded that she was on her way home.

He, however, received a rude and sudden shock
when he saw her halt beneath the blue lamp, and
ascend the steps of the police-station.

"Phew!" he gasped aloud.  "Whatever is she
there for?  To give evidence against me—to put the
police upon my track!  By Jove!  There's no time to
lose.  It must be done to-night!"

Next instant he turned, and going to the railway
station he obtained a leather handbag from the
cloak-room, and hastened with it back to his house.  He
wore rubber heels to his shoes, and moved swiftly and
almost noiselessly.

In the darkness he ascended the steps, and opened
the front door with his key.  There was no light in
the hall, and he could see through the Venetian blind
of the kitchen that Mrs. Felmore was below.

Without passing into the sitting-room, he went
straight upstairs to the mysterious apartment in which
the hooded figure lived in secret.  First, he placed
his handkerchief over his mouth, and then, opening
the door, passed in and switched on an electric torch
which he produced from his pocket.

Without hesitation he unlocked the heavy bag,
and took therefrom a long narrow deal box, which he
opened, apparently to make certain that nothing was
broken within, and then, placing it upon a table, drew
down a little electric switch which was fitted at one
end of the box.

Afterwards, scarcely looking around, he left the
room, relocked the door, and crept out of the house
without anyone having seen or heard him, old
Mrs. Felmore being quite unconscious of her master's
secret visit.

Back at the end of Hammersmith Bridge, Boyne
glanced at his watch; then, chuckling to himself, he
hurried to the police-station, in order to watch
Marigold farther in case she had not already left.

When the girl had told the sergeant on duty the
reason of her visit, she was passed upstairs into a
room, where she was seen by the Inspector of the
Criminal Investigation Department attached to the
Division, a clean-shaven, fresh-complexioned man,
who listened to her story very attentively.

From time to time he took notes of names and
addresses.

"Have you any of the telegrams which the missing
man sent you?" he asked presently.

From her handbag she produced two of the
messages, which he read carefully.

"And since the twenty-third of last month you've
not seen him?" he asked.

"No," replied the girl.

"And in Mincing Lane they have heard nothing
since the receipt of the last telegram?"

"Nothing—neither has his sister."

The inspector looked her straight in the face, and
said:

"I presume, Miss Ramsay, that this gentleman
was a particular friend of yours, eh?"

Marigold blushed slightly and responded in the
affirmative.

"Is there any reason you suspect why he should
have gone away so suddenly?  Did you—well, did
you quarrel with him, for instance?"

"Not in the least.  We were the best of friends,"
she answered.  "I came here to ask whether you could
assist me in finding him."

The clean-shaven man drew his breath, and
gravely shook his head.

"I fear that we shall be unable to help you," he
replied.

"Why?  He is missing.  Surely the police can
trace him!" she cried in disappointment.

"No.  He is *not* missing," was his answer.  "The
fact that he sent those telegrams is sufficient to show
that he is keeping out of the way for some purpose
best known to himself.  He has, no doubt, some secret
from you."

"Secret from me?" she echoed in dismay.  "No,
we both had a secret."

The inspector only smiled.  He, of course,
thought she alluded to the fact that they were lovers.

She saw his amusement, and wondered whether
she dare be frank and tell him of their suspicions
concerning Mr. Boyne.  Yet the thought flashed
across her mind that the story of his visits to that
upstairs room, clothed in that strange garb, would
never be credited.  The London police hear strange
stories from hour to hour, many of them the result
of vivid imaginations, of hearsay, or deliberate
attempts to incriminate innocent persons.  Malice is
at the bottom of half the fantastic stories told by
women to officers of the Criminal Investigation
Department, and Marigold saw that even though she
told the truth, it would not be believed.  Yet could
she eliminate the real reason why her suspicions had
first been aroused?  She resolved to be frank,
therefore after a brief pause, she said:

"The secret shared by Mr. Durrant and myself
was concerning a certain man, resident close by
here."

"Oh!  And what is it?" asked the officer eagerly.

"Well, we have certain suspicions regarding a
gentleman named Boyne, who lives in Bridge Place."

"Boyne?  Why, not old Bernie Boyne the
insurance agent?"

"Yes.  Do you know him?"

"Oh—well, he's well known about Hammersmith,"
was the inspector's discreet reply.  "What
about him?"

"There is something about him that is mysterious,"
declared the girl.  "Very mysterious."

"And what's that?"

"Well, Mr. Durrant was helping me to watch his
movements when he suddenly disappeared!"

"Ah!  That's interesting.  Did Boyne know you
were watching?"

"No.  He had no suspicion.  We watched him
go to two houses, one in Pont Street, and the other
in Upper Brook Street," Marigold said.  "At night
he dresses smartly and goes into the West End."

"A good many men do that, miss.  By day they
earn their money honestly by hard work, and at night
fritter it away up West.  I don't really see what there
is in that.  Isn't there anything else you know?"

Marigold hesitated.  She feared to tell him of the
strange disguise.

"Well, my aunt is Mr. Boyne's housekeeper, and
I know that a room at the top of the house is kept
locked."

"A good many upstairs rooms are kept locked.
There's nothing much in that, I think."

"But I heard noises inside—a human cry!"

The inspector looked at her with disbelief written
upon his rosy countenance.

"Are you quite sure of that, Miss—er—Miss
Ramsay?" he asked seriously.

"Yes.  I heard it," was her firm reply.

"Ah!  Then, because of that you and Mr. Durrant
believed that Boyne has somebody in hiding
upstairs.  Is that so?"

She replied in the affirmative.

"And you don't think Boyne discovered that you
were watching him?  If he did, I think he would
have resented it very much, for I've met Boyne once
or twice.  Indeed, I passed him in King Street an
hour ago."

"You passed him!  Perhaps he's back then.  My
aunt hasn't seen him for three days."

"Well, I saw him in King Street to-night, but he
didn't see me."  Then, after a pause, he added: "I
think, miss, you're mistaken regarding Mr. Boyne.
I only know him slightly, but I know in what respect
he is held in the neighbourhood, and how his praises
are upon everyone's lips—especially the church
people."

"Then you don't think that he has anything to
do with Mr. Durrant's disappearance?"

"Not in the least.  I should dismiss that idea from
my mind at once."

"But how about that locked room?"

"Your aunt will be able to fathom that if she keeps
her eyes open," he said.  "And as for Mr. Durrant,
you'll no doubt hear from him very soon.  To me it
seems perfectly clear that he has some hidden motive
for keeping out of the way.  Are his accounts at the
office all right, for instance?"

"Quite in order."

"Blackmail may be at the bottom of it.  That
accounts for the mysterious disappearance of lots of
men and women."

"But who could blackmail Mr. Durrant?"

"Ah! you don't know.  A little slip, a year or so
ago, and the screw is now being put on by those who
know the truth.  Oh! that is an everyday occurrence
in London, I assure you, Miss Ramsay."

"Then you can't help me to find him?" she asked
eagerly, after a brief silence.

"I don't see how we can act," was the officer's
answer.  "Had he disappeared without a word we
would, of course, circulate his description and a
photograph—if you have one?"

"Yes, I have one," she said anxiously.

"Good.  But that is useless to us, for the simple
reason that, after leaving you, he has sent you
messages telling you not to worry.  In face of that,
how can we assume that anything tragic has happened
to him?  No, my dear young lady," he added.
"I fear we cannot help you officially, much as I regret
it."

Five minutes later Marigold descended the stairs,
and walked out into the dark road utterly disconsolate
and disappointed.  Gerald was missing, yet the
police would raise not a finger to assist her in tracing
him!

Yet, after all, as she walked back to Bridge Place,
she saw quite clearly that there was much truth in
the detective-inspector's argument.  Gerald had not
suddenly disappeared and left no trace.  He had
urged her not to worry, and the inspector had advised
her to keep on hoping for his return.

Later she sat in the kitchen with her aunt, and
related all that had passed at the police-station.

"I quite agree with the inspector," declared the
deaf old woman.  "The police can't search for every
man who goes away and sends telegrams saying he
has gone.  You see, Mr. Durrant hasn't committed
any crime, for instance.  So there's no real reason
why the police should act.  If he hadn't sent
telegrams the case would be so different."

With that view the girl, greatly distressed and
broken, had to agree.

It was then nearly ten o'clock, and at her aunt's
suggestion Marigold resolved to stay the night and
keep the old woman company.

"You can have the same room you had a little
time ago," she said.  "It is aired, for I always keep
hot-water bottles in it in case it may be wanted.  If
you went home now, you wouldn't get there till half-past
eleven.  Besides, it's more cheerful for me.  I'm
beginning to hate this place now Mr. Boyne never
comes near."

"The inspector said he saw Mr. Boyne in King
Street to-night," Marigold said.

"Bosh! my dear," was old Mrs. Felmore's prompt
reply.  "He wouldn't be in King Street without
coming home.  It was somebody else he saw, no doubt."  And
that was exactly what Marigold herself thought.

Soon after half-past ten, Mrs. Felmore put out the
light, and they both went to bed.

For half an hour Marigold lay awake thinking it
all over, and thinking of the last occasion she had
slept in that room, and of the mysterious chamber
upstairs whence had issued those strange human cries.
Then, at last, tired out, she dropped off to sleep.

How long she slept she knew not, but suddenly
she was awakened by men's shouts, and next instant
found the room full of smoke.  There was a roaring
noise outside.  Half suffocated she groped her way
to the door frantically, only to find the staircase above
in flames.

"Auntie! auntie!" she yelled, not recollecting that
her aunt was deaf, but by dint of fierce courage she
got to the old lady's room.  As she entered the door,
Mrs. Felmore, half choking, met her in the red light
thrown by the flames, and together they sprang down
the staircase, along the hall, and, after fumbling with
the chain upon the door, dashed out of the house to
where a number of people, including three police
constables, were awaiting the arrival of the fire brigade.

Meanwhile the top floor of the house was burning
fiercely, the flames going up through the roof for
many feet, and as there was rather a high wind, the
sparks were flying everywhere.

Bernard Boyne's long deal box had sent petrol
about the room of mystery at the time to which it had
been set, and already all evidence of what was
contained there, and of the mysterious origin of the fire,
had been obliterated.

The insidious death-dealer had hoped to include
Marigold and his housekeeper in that relentless plot
to destroy all that might incriminate him.

But he was mistaken.  Marigold Ramsay, though
in her night attire—and who had fainted in the arms
of a constable—had escaped unscathed!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HARD PRESSED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   HARD PRESSED

.. vspace:: 2

When Céline Tènot and Henri Galtier so suddenly
appeared outside Ena's flat as the dark shadow of
menace at the very moment of the diabolical triumph
of the death-dealers, Bernard Boyne realised that, in
order to escape, he would have to summon all his wits.
The death of old Mr. Martin in Chiswick was an
ugly affair—a very ugly affair—and Céline more than
suspected—she knew that somehow by the old man's
death all three had profited.

At first Boyne was furious to think that Ena's
visit to Melun, and the payment of that respectable
sum, had been of no avail.  But next second, he had
seen that the only means of escape was to keep up his
identity as Mr. Bennett, to temporise with his
pursuers, and then to effect an escape.  He saw that, at
all hazards, he must prevent the pair of blackmailers
from facing Ena and Lilla.

Therefore, when the Frenchman had expressed
that hard determination that he wanted to prevent him
from playing any more of his "hellish tricks" upon
innocent people, he had stood in his path upon the
pavement and replied:

"Now, Monsieur Galtier, just pause for a moment—and
think!  Aren't you a fool?  Céline's late mistress
has been very good to her, and now you come
here and create trouble."

They were standing together against the railings
of Hyde Park, not far from the taxi-men's shelter.

"I wish to create no trouble," declared the Frenchman
in very good English.  "Only trouble for *you*!"
he snarled.

"That is extremely kind of you," Boyne retorted.
"But if you still continue to threaten me, I shall take
measures to protect myself, and also to retaliate."

"You have denounced me as a blackmailer!" the
Frenchman snapped.

"I was wrong," said Boyne apologetically.  "I
withdraw those words.  Naturally at first I believed
you wanted more money!"

"Then you believed wrong," was the reply.  "Our
object in coming to London is to see madame and
yourself—and to investigate further the death of
Monsieur Martin."

"Well, that you are perfectly at liberty to do,"
Boyne said, with affected carelessness.  "I have
nothing whatever to fear.  If you like to waste your
time and money, do so."

"Céline knows the truth," retorted Galtier.

"Then let her go to the police and tell them.  The
London police pay little heed to the statements of
discharged servants, especially if they are foreigners."

"Yes, I will go!" cried the French girl excitedly.
"You are assassins!—assassins!  You—both of
you!—killed poor Monsieur Martin!"

"I think you will have to prove that," replied
Boyne, remaining very calm.

"Hush, Céline!" said her lover.  "We do not
want a fracas in the street!"

"Bah!  The man thinks we are afraid of him.  But
we are not!  We are here to get at the truth about
poor monsieur."

"Well, mademoiselle, you are at perfect liberty to
institute inquiries," Boyne replied.  "But before you
go to the police as you threaten, just pause and ask
yourself what all this storm in a teacup will profit you
and your friend."

The vivacious girl shrugged her shoulders.

"Remember that madame is your friend," he went
on.  "She told me that she has recently been in Paris,
and called upon you in Melun.  Madame, since you
left, has several times expressed regret to me that she
was abrupt."

"Because she believes that I know your secret!"
cried mademoiselle, interrupting.

"Let us walk on," suggested Boyne, turning
purposely towards Knightsbridge.  "There are some
people trying to overhear our conversation."

Galtier saw a man and two women who had halted
close by, probably attracted by the loud tones in
which they were conversing.  Strange conversations
go on in the London streets at night, as every police
constable knows.  The night-world of London is an
amazing world, of which the honest go-to-bed-early
citizen knows nothing.  One half the world of
London is ignorant of what the other half does
o' nights.

They moved on past the taxi shelter towards
Knightsbridge, which was in the opposite direction to
Upper Brook Street.

"I think you are certainly not fair to madame,"
Boyne said very quietly to the girl.  "She, out of
her own generous heart—for no better-hearted
woman ever lived—sought you out because she felt
that she had treated you unkindly.  Of course, I do
not know the real facts, but on the face of it I think
you, mademoiselle, treated your late mistress with
ingratitude.  I say this," he went on, "in a perfectly
friendly spirit.  You may have formed some
unfounded suspicion regarding poor Mr. Martin's
death.  Why, I don't know."

"Because I heard the truth from madame's own lips."

"Some distorted words half overheard, I suppose,"
he laughed.  "My dear mademoiselle, it is
always very dangerous to interfere with the death of
anybody, because here in England there is such a
thing as a law of slander, and of libel—criminal libel,
which means that those who make false accusations
may be committed to prison.  Therefore, before you
go further, I advise you to consult a solicitor.  He will
no doubt advise you."

"We will see the police first," declared Galtier.

"I have not the slightest objection," laughed
Boyne.  "If you think it will avail you, go to
Scotland Yard.  That is the head office of the Criminal
Investigation Department, but"—and he paused—"but
I tell you this, Monsieur, if either of you make
any accusations against madame or myself, we shall
at once prosecute you—and further, if you escape back
to France, we will follow you there and prosecute you.
Here, in England, we will not permit foreigners to
come over and give the police a lot of trouble for
nothing.  So make whatever statement you like, but
don't forget you will have to substantiate it with
witnesses—otherwise you'll probably both find yourselves
in prison.  That's all I have to say.  Good-night!"

And, turning abruptly upon his heel, the
master-criminal walked back towards Hyde Park Corner,
leaving mademoiselle and her companion utterly
perplexed.

Bernard Boyne, as he hurried up Park Lane on
his return to Upper Brook Street, muttered to
himself:

"I've given them something to think over!
They'll hesitate—and while they hesitate, we must act.
It would have been fatal for them to have met Ena—and
especially to-night—*of all nights*!"

Ten minutes later he was back in Ena Pollen's
room, where she was sitting with Lilla.

"What's happened?" asked his wife, for the paleness
of his countenance betrayed that something was
amiss.

"Oh! nothing—nothing serious, I mean!" was
his reply.  "Get me a liqueur brandy," he stammered.

Ena went at once to the dining-room and brought
a little glass of old cognac, which he swallowed at a
gulp, and then sat for a few moments staring straight
before him.

"Tell us, Bernie.  What's happened?  Where
have you been?" demanded his wife.

"Been!  I—well, I've been right into the camp
of the enemy!" he said hoarsely.

"Enemy!  What enemy?"

"Céline is here.  Wants to see you.  The fellow
Galtier is with her.  They are on the track of old
Martin, and want to see you!"

The two women exchanged glances, for the light
in the faces of both had died out.

"Céline here!" gasped Ena.  "How much does
she know?"

"How can we tell?  I've simply defied her."

"But why didn't you offer to pay?  They, of
course, want money."

Rapidly he described to the two excited women
what had occurred.  Then at last Lilla said:

"Well, the only thing we can do is to sit tight.
We must—if we are to get the money paid on dear
Augusta's policy."

"Of course, we can't slip out, or it would be an
admission, if Céline really goes to the police."

"There is nothing to prevent her," remarked Ena.
"The girl is dangerous."

"So is that girl Ramsay.  I've always said so,"
Lilla declared.  "Her lover is out of the way, and the
sooner she herself is silenced the better, for as long
as that pair are alive they will always be a menace
to us."

"I quite agree," said the red-haired widow.  "You
said that many weeks ago."

"Well, it is all in Bernie's hands.  It's no use
getting the insurance company to pay without taking
due precautions to protect ourselves, is it?" asked
Boyne's wife.

The death-dealers thereupon took counsel together.
For an hour they sat discussing plans, each putting
their idea forward.  In the whole of criminal London
no three persons were so callous, so ingenious, or so
regardless of human life.  They had discovered a
means of making money with little exertion and with
certain results.  Boyne, expert as he was in insurance
and of a scientific turn of mind, could deal death
whenever and wherever he desired, and in such a
manner that no coroner's jury could pronounce a
verdict other than that death had supervened as a
natural cause.

Not before three o'clock in the morning did Lilla
and her husband leave Upper Brook Street, and when
they did an elaborate and ingenious plan had
been decided upon which left no loophole for discovery.

Mrs. Augusta Morrison of Carsphairn had died,
and Ena would, of course, excuse herself from going
to the funeral.  She had mourning which, as a matter
of fact, she had worn on more than one occasion when
a wealthy friend of hers had died.  But in this case
she dared not put in an appearance.

At home in Pont Street, Boyne sat with his
wife and discussed the situation at considerable
length.

"You must get rid of that girl Marigold," she
said very emphatically, as she lounged upon the
silk-covered sofa in the elegant little room.  "She
suspects something at Bridge Place, just as her lover
suspected.  Well, we've successfully sent him off,
and he can thank his lucky stars he didn't get a
dose."

"I only wish now I had given him a little dose
that would have caused him trouble about ten days
after he sailed," Boyne said.

"Yes, Bernie.  Recollect, I suggested it.  They
could have buried him at sea, and we should not
have been troubled by him any further."

"I was a fool not to take your advice, Lilla."

"You always are.  But take my advice about the
girl.  She's distinctly dangerous!  A menace to all
of us!  And so is your *ménage* at Hammersmith—especially
if Céline really does go to the police.
You should end it all, and above everything close
Marigold's mouth.  That girl is the greatest peril
we have before us!"

Her husband, who had lit a cigarette, and was
lounging in a chair, agreed with her.

"But," he said, "how am I to do it?  We are
in a devilish tight corner, Lilla!  The game has
been a great and very easy one up to now.  Nobody
has ever yet tumbled to the scientific insurance stunt.
And there's lots of money in it.  We've found it so.
We've got between us eighty thousand or so.  A
very decent sum.  And we could make a million,
given a quiet market.  Look at the lots of red- or
golden-haired women who are wealthy and who are
not of any use on earth.  Life assurance companies
are always on the look-out for business, and pay
commission to any and every little tin-pot agent who
can put through a proposal.  Remember that young
fool of a solicitor in Manchester.  And there are
hundreds about the country everywhere."

"That's so, Bernie," replied his wife in a matter-of-fact
tone, she having taken a cigarette to smoke
with her husband.  "But here we have a peril before
us.  We were never in such a tight corner before.
This may finish us!"

"Oh! my dear Lilla, don't get flurried.  I am
not.  The fellow Durrant is on the high seas as a
man who has had a nervous breakdown.  Oh, that
description!  What a godsend it is to us all, isn't
it?  Nervous breakdown is responsible for a thousand
and one evasions of the law—theft, bigamy, assault,
forgery—in fact, almost any crime in the calendar
can be committed and ascribed to the 'nervous
breakdown' of the defendant.  We've a lot to be
thankful for from the doctors, Lilla," he said, "a lot
to be thankful for!"

"Well," she said, puffing thoughtfully at her
cigarette, "if the secret of Bridge Place were
exposed, then I fear that you couldn't ascribe it to
a nervous breakdown, eh?"

Boyne laughed.

"No, Lilla.  You are always alive—you are
amazingly clever!" he declared.  "I did my best
with that French girl, Céline, but—well, I'm not
quite certain whether she won't go to the police and
make a statement."

"Ah!  I see," Lilla said quickly.  "So we ought
to clear out—and quickly."

"Out of London, but not abroad.  But not yet.
If all of us left suddenly, the insurance company
might get scent of a mystery, especially if Céline
says anything about old Martin to the police."

"But what of Marigold?  Has she any suspicion
that Durrant is on the sea?"

"None.  Durrant telegraphed to her to urge her
to be patient and that he will return.  So she's
waiting—and she'll wait a long time!

"Ah! really, Bernie, you are wonderful.  That
was a glorious idea of yours—those telegrams."

"Yes.  They've worked well," he said.  "Both
the girl and his sister, as well as the fellow's
employers, have all been reassured."

"But the girl is a menace, I repeat," the woman
declared, "and as such you must see that her activity
comes to an end.  There are a dozen ways in which
you can manage it.  Adopt one of them, and lose
no time about it," she urged.

"Yes," he said in a hard voice, "I ought to have
taken your advice long ago."

"Well, take it now," she said.  "There are
enemies around us—Céline, Galtier, and this girl
Ramsay.  So be careful.  We are in very serious
peril!"

"True.  How serious we have yet to learn.  But
let's remain cool and we shall most certainly win."

Almost as he spoke, however, the electric bell
at the front door rang, causing them both to
start.

"Whoever can it be at this hour?" gasped Lilla,
jumping to her feet.

"Wait!" said Boyne, in a changed voice.  "I'll
go down and see."

He did so.  Lilla stood breathless, listening.  She
heard him unbolt the door and open it.

Then she heard him give vent to a loud cry, half
of surprise, half of terror, as a man's deep voice
spoke.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RECLUSE`:

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   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE RECLUSE

.. vspace:: 2

The commotion caused in Bridge Place by the fire
at Mr. Boyne's was not of long duration.  Ere the
fire brigade arrived, however, so swift was the fire
that the two top floors were gutted, thus destroying
the secret of that locked chamber.

A woman who lived a few doors off, and who
knew Mrs. Felmore, gave the deaf old woman and
her niece shelter, and while the police kept back the
crowd at both ends of the street the four engines
which had arrived were soon pumping water upon
the roaring flames.  The house was an old one with
much woodwork, therefore it burned like tinder, and
Marigold had certainly only escaped with her life.
The superintendent in charge of the firemen had
already ascertained that no person remained within,
and the men in their shining helmets, their figures
illuminated by the glare from the flames, were
clambering across the neighbouring roofs with their
hose-pipes.

Soon the flames were got under by the powerful
rush of water, but not before the roof had fallen in,
and only the ground floor remained intact, while the
houses on either side were badly damaged.  Every
now and then, when a beam fell, or a portion of wall
collapsed, showers of sparks shot upward, and there
was a burst of flames through the smoke.

A fire in any crowded district of London at
whatever hour always attracts a large number of
onlookers.  That night was no exception, for a big
crowd had assembled at either end of the street, and
in the centre of the crowd towards Hammersmith
Bridge, wedged between several women of the lower
class, stood a shabbily-dressed man in a golf cap
watching intently the progress of the fire.

He watched it with satisfaction, and saw the
flames as they descended and burst through the
windows of the second floor.  When the roof fell in
he smiled, though none noticed it.

The man saw that all evidence of his diabolical
work had been destroyed, for he was none other than
Bernard Boyne.

What had happened to Marigold and her aunt?
He asked the woman standing next to him if any
people were in the house.

"Yes.  They say there's two women and a man
there," was the reply.  "The man got out, but the
two women 'ave been burnt to death, poor dears!
Ain't it terrible?  They were asleep when the fire
broke out.  The firemen 'aven't got the bodies out yet."

"Terrible!" declared the man in the golf cap;
and then he elbowed his way out of the crowd filled
with satisfaction.

As he did so a youth shouted:

"Lucky for 'em—eh?  Both the women got out
just in time."

"Is that so?" asked Boyne.

"Yes," said the youth.  "One of the firemen 'as
just told me."

"There was a girl there, wasn't there?" Boyne
queried.

"Yes; she was got out, with an old woman!"

"Where are they?"

"They say they're in a house just along there,"
was the reply.

Boyne held his breath and went on.  At first he
had believed that his dastardly plot had been
successful, and that Marigold had fallen a victim to
his clever machinations.  At least, the two upper
floors had been destroyed and certain evidence wiped
out.  The clock, the pocket-lighter, and the child's
rubber airball filled with petrol, which had been in
the box he had so silently introduced into the house
while Marigold was at the police-station, had done
their work just as he had intended.  But he was filled
with disappointment and chagrin when, after several
other inquiries of firemen and others, he became
convinced that old Mrs. Felmore and her niece had
escaped.

At last, after watching until the excitement of
the scene had died down and the crowd was
dispersing, he learnt from one of the firemen—he dared
not be seen by a police constable, for most of them
knew him by sight—the house in which the two
half-suffocated women had taken shelter.

Then he turned and trudged all the way back to
Pont Street, for, dressed as he was, he did not wish
to get there until the servants had retired.

He had made another great coup, it was true, but
the peril of Marigold still existed.  That was the one
thought that obsessed him as he strode up the long
Kensington Road, past the Albert Hall, and on
towards Hyde Park Corner.

The night of Augusta's death had been fraught
with sufficient perils in all conscience.  He recollected
the unexpected appearance of Céline and her
companion, of how he had defied them, and how, later
that night, a caller had come to Pont Street—a caller
who could not be refused admission—the man who
had for so long been in hiding in that upstairs room
which had now been totally wiped out by the flames.
"I shall have to reappear at home to-morrow full
of surprise," he muttered to himself, as at last he
let himself into the house in Pont Street, the door
of which Lilla had left purposely unbolted.

Next day about noon, carrying a suit-case and
dressed as he usually was when going about his
duties in Hammersmith, he arrived in Bridge Place
utterly amazed at finding his house wrecked and
ruined.  A constable was on duty—a man who knew him.

"Well, sir," exclaimed the man in uniform, "this
is pretty bad, ain't it?  The fire broke out late last
night, but it's fortunate the two women got out in
time."

"What?" gasped Boyne, apparently staggered
at the sight.  "What's happened?  I've been away
in Liverpool, and have only just got back!"

"Well, that deaf old woman will be glad you're
back, sir.  She's been round to the police-station
telling 'em that you were away."

"Where is she?"

"In the house over there," and he pointed to it.

"You said there was another woman in the house.
Who was she?"

"A girl.  The old woman's niece, I've heard.
She's all right, and went away early this morning."

"Oh, yes, I know her.  Came to keep the old
woman company while I was away, I expect," he
said.  "But how fortunate they were saved!  How
did it happen?  Does anyone know?"

"The superintendent of the brigade was here
about two hours ago, and they examined the ruins.
They think that the fire must have broken out in
the top room upstairs.  I went over it with them.
We found a lot of fused glass, which rather puzzled
them."

"Oh, yes.  A lot of bottles I kept upstairs.  I
suppose they melted in the heat," Boyne replied.
"Did they find anything else?"

"No, nothing of any importance."

"Then they don't know how it broke out?"

"No; except that there must have been something
up there very inflammable, they say, for the fire
spread so quickly."

"Perhaps it was a bottle of benzine I had up
there for cleaning my clothes," said Boyne.  "But,
any case, it's rough luck on me—for I'm not
insured."

"Sorry to hear that, sir," replied the constable.
"They said, you being an insurance agent, you would
be certain to be covered against loss."

"No.  It's the old story over again," Boyne said,
with a grin, "'the shoemaker's child is the worst
shod.'  I was a fool not to insure against fire—an
infernal fool!  But it can't be helped.  It's ruined
me!" and he turned away and crossed the road to
the house which the constable had indicated as the
one where old Mrs. Felmore had sought shelter.

For half an hour Boyne sat listening while the
old woman shouted to him excitedly her description
of the fire.  He adopted that mealy-mouthed attitude
which he could assume at will—that attitude he
adopted so cleverly when he went to church so
regularly—and condoled with her.

"Of course, Mrs. Felmore, all this horrible
catastrophe shall not make any difference to you.  I
hear you had Miss Marigold to keep you company.
Quite right!  But I'm so very sorry about it all.
The poor girl must have been very frightened.
Where is she?"

"She went back to Wimbledon Park about an
hour ago, sir.  She telegraphed to the bank excusing
herself for to-day, as she only had clothes that were
lent her."

"Ah!  I am so sorry about that.  But have you
any idea how it all happened?" Boyne asked the old
woman.

"No, sir, I haven't.  I'm always so careful about
fire," she answered.  "I was burnt when I was a
child, and therefore I always look at the kitchen grate
and rake the cinders out before I goes to bed."

"But it seems to have been upstairs where the fire
originated."

"Yes, sir," replied the old woman.  "I expect it
was the kitchen flue.  I asked old Mr. Morgan, the
sweep, to do it three weeks ago, but he was very busy,
and he didn't come.  I've cleaned out the range all
right—but that's what I think.  I'm sorry, sir, but it
wasn't my fault, really it wasn't."

"Of course not, Mrs. Felmore.  Morgan should
have come when you ordered him," Boyne said.

Afterwards he succeeded in entering the gaunt
blackened wreck of his home.  With satisfaction he
saw the frameless windows of the two upper floors,
but inside a spectacle of utter ruin met his gaze.  The
water had come through the ceiling of his sitting-room,
half of which was down, the stairs consumed,
and all the remaining furniture ruined beyond
repair.

From the cupboard, however, he took his pet
"Nibby," who was still alive, and probably wondering
at all the commotion.

"Poor little fellow!" he exclaimed, stroking the
rat's pointed pink nose, and afterwards placing him
in his pocket, as he did sometimes.  "I shall give
you to Mrs. Felmore."

And after a final look round at the scene of the
wreckage, he returned to where his deaf old housekeeper
was staying, and presented her with the tame rat.

Late that same afternoon Boyne hurried along
Theobald's Road, past the railings of Gray's Inn,
and crossing the busy road with its procession of
tramcars, turned the corner into Harpur Street, a
short, dingy thoroughfare of smoke-grimed,
old-fashioned houses, once the residences of well-to-do
people, but now mostly let out in tenements.

Before one of the houses on the left-hand side
he halted, and pulled the bell.  The door was opened
by a young girl wearing a dirty apron and whose hair
was in curlers.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Bennett.  Yes, 'e's upstairs,"
she exclaimed.

So up the uncarpeted stairs Boyne went to the top
of the house.

"It's only me," he said reassuringly as he turned
the handle of a door and unceremoniously entered a
small, barely-furnished, ill-kept room.

A cheap oil lamp, smoking badly, was burning
on the table, while near it, back in the shadow, sat
the figure of a man huddled up in a ragged old armchair.

"You!" he grunted.  "You've been a long time!

"I couldn't get here before, Lionel.  It was too
dangerous.  I had to see that all was clear before I
to enter this street.  There's always a detective
or two about here, and it wouldn't do for you to be
seen outside."

"No," grunted the man, who, rising slowly to his
feet came within the feeble zone of light which
revealed a thin, bony face, with high cheek bones, an
abnormal forehead, and a pair of deep-set dark eyes.
The faded grey suit he wore was several sizes too big
for him, yet his arms seemed of unusual length, and
his hands were narrow and long, with talon-like
fingers.

His countenance was truly a strange one, being
triangular, with very narrow chin and very broad
brow—the face of a man who was either a genius or
an idiot.

"I waited all night for you!" he said in plaintive
tones.  "And you never came."

"Well, I'm not going to risk anything—even for
you!" replied Boyne roughly.  "I've got quite
enough of my own troubles just now."

"Oh!  What's happened?"

"Lots.  It's a good job I got you away from
Hammersmith, my friend.  The place has burned up!"

"Burned up?" echoed the strange-looking man.
"Oh!  Then you've had the beautiful fire you used
to talk about, eh?  And has it all gone?"

"The lot.  And a darned good job for you!"

"And that beautiful microscope?" the man asked
regretfully.  "Has that gone, too?"

"Yes.  The whole bag of tricks has been consumed.
That's why I didn't come last night," Boyne
said.

"Oh! the beautiful mike!" exclaimed the abnormal
creature, as though to himself.  "And it cost
such a lot—oh, such a lot!"

"Don't trouble about the microscope, you fool!"
cried Boyne roughly.  "Just try and pull yourself
together and save your own skin.  Where are those
tubes?  I want them."

The lean man in the over-large suit ambled across
the room, his head bent forward, for he was very
round-shouldered, and going to an old leather bag in
the corner, slowly unlocked it and drew out a thick
cartridge envelope which contained something hard.

Boyne took it from him quickly, and tearing it
open, took out two dark-blue tubes of glass, the corks
of which were sealed with wax.

"Are they all right?" he asked harshly.  "Can
you guarantee them?  Now don't tell me a lie," he
added threateningly, "or it will be the worse for you.
I had a good mind to give you over to the police when
you came to Pont Street the other night.  You
deserved it—venturing out like that."

"I got to know where you were, and I had to come
and see you," whined the ugly creature as he ambled
back to his chair.

"Don't do it again!  Remain in hiding.  Keep
close here.  You are in comfortable quarters.  Old
Mrs. Sampson below is always silent as regards her
lodgers.  Lots of men who have had this room have
hidden from the police till they found a way out of
it.  Take my advice, and do the same.  But don't
attempt to come round to Pont Street—for we don't
want you there, *understand that*?"

And he put the little glass tubes, which contained
fatal bacteria, back into their envelope and placed
them carefully in his pocket.

"But money!  I must have money!" cried the
other, a young-old man whose age it was impossible
to determine though his hair was growing grey.

"Of course you must," laughed Boyne.  "Here's
fifty pounds to go on with.  And keep a still tongue
or it will be the worse for you.  Recollect if you are
unfortunate enough to be arrested, it will only be
because of your own idiotic movements.  Keep quiet
here."

"Misfortune may befall any of us!" said the other
in that peculiar whining voice which showed that his
mental balance was not normal.

"True.  But if you do happen to fall into the
hands of the police, remember—breathe not a word.
Trust to me to help you out of the scrape.  Trust
Mrs. Sampson downstairs—and trust me."

"Yes.  But, oh, that beautiful mike!  Burnt up.
That beautiful mike!"

"Don't bother about that.  I'll buy you another,
and all the apparatus if you'll only keep a still tongue
and remain in the house.  I've told Mrs. Sampson
not to let you out."

"Oh!  I won't go out.  I promise you I won't,"
he said with an idiotic stare.  "I only went to Pont
Street because I wanted to know if you were all right."

"And incidentally you wanted money!" laughed
the other.  "Well, you had it—you have it again
now.  Remain quiet and content.  I'm busy.  I've
got lots of things to look after.  I've probably got to
go away, but I'll see you have money to go on with
all right."

"Very well," said the strange man.  "This place
is better than Hammersmith, living in a locked room
for weeks and months, nobody to see, and only
breathing the fresh air on the roof when everybody
had gone to bed."

"But you had your work—your scientific work in
bacteriology!  You can't live without your work!"

"Ah, yes.  I had my work.  But, oh! it was so
lonely—so very lonely."

"You're not lonely here," said Boyne cheerfully.
"So don't bother.  Take your ease, and make the best
of it.  You're in a house which shelters people like
yourself.  Here everyone keeps a still tongue—and
nobody knows about little Maggie."

The curious man with the triangular face blinked
across at Boyne—and remained silent for several
moments.

"Little Maggie!" he gasped at last.  "Little
Maggie!  Ah!  I remember.  I——"

Again he paused.  Then glaring into Boyne's face
with a strange wild expression, he said:

"You!  Why—why you're—you're really Willie
Wisden!"

"Of course I am," laughed Boyne.  "But keep
cool, Lionel, old chap, or you'll have one of those
nasty attacks of yours coming on again.  Ta-ta!  I'll
come back very soon," he said, and turning he left
the room and descended the stairs.

"Perhaps I'll come back," he muttered to himself.
"But I do not think so!  The idiot has served me
well, and I've got the tubes.  That is all I want—at
present!"

And a moment later he was walking in the
darkness through Harpur Street.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"GET RID OF THE GIRL!"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   "GET RID OF THE GIRL!"

.. vspace:: 2

Ten days more had passed.  Poor Mrs. Morrison had
been buried at Brookwood, her sister and several
relatives being among the mourners.

Notice had been given through a solicitor to the
insurance company of the assignment of the policy
for ten thousand pounds to Mrs. Braybourne.  The
solicitor, a perfectly respectable man practising in
the City, had received a call from Mrs. Braybourne
of Pont Street, and she had handed him the policy
and the assignment.  Boyne had first made secret
inquiries regarding the unsuspecting lawyer, and
found him to be a man with a very high reputation
in his profession.

Hence the Red Widow and her two associates,
having successfully defied the French ex-maid and
her lover, were now awaiting payment by the
insurance company.  Boyne, on his part, had cleverly
destroyed all traces of the secret of that upstairs
room in which had lived for some time the
half-demented, eccentric Lionel Gosden, who was so
blindly obedient to every order of the criminal who
held him in control.

"There only remains that girl!" remarked Boyne
as he sat with his wife one night.

"Yes.  The sooner she's out of the way the
better, my dear Bernie.  She knows far too much."

"I've got the remainder of the stuff from Lionel."

"Then it will be quite easy.  I needn't tell you the way."

Boyne smiled as he took another cigarette from
his case.

"Yes," he said.  "And then I think that Ena and
I will clear off abroad and leave you as the lone
widow in whose favour dear Augusta insured her
life."

"True.  We ought to part as soon as possible.
What do they think of your absence from Hammersmith?"

"Oh, they know my home is burned up, but I
put in an appearance now and then and collect up a
few premiums just to show myself."

"I wonder what the girl told the police?" Lilla
remarked thoughtfully.

"Some story which they, no doubt, put down to be
a cock-and-bull statement—about the locked room,
most probably.  She might have heard Lionel moving
about, or coughing, before I got him away from there.
If so the noise would naturally excite her suspicion."

"What about the man Durrant?"

"Oh, we needn't trouble about him.  It will be
months before he can get back again, and when he
does, he'll find none of us here, the girl dead—of
natural causes, of course—and the house being
rebuilt.  We have nothing to fear from him,
providing we can get rid of the girl."

"And that must be done at once," the handsome
woman repeated.  "While she is alive she will be a
constant menace to us."

Next morning, when he left Pont Street, he went
to the City, and, knowing that Marigold always went
out at a quarter to one to her lunch, he waited outside
the bank.

At last she came, a neatly-dressed and dainty
figure of the true type of business girl, and at the
corner of Fenchurch Street he met her as though by
accident, and raised his hat.

"Why, Mr. Boyne!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes.  This is an unexpected meeting, Miss
Marigold!  I haven't seen you since the fire," he
said.  "How lucky that you and your aunt escaped!
I can't think how it was caused, except that your
aunt perhaps dropped a match upstairs before going
to bed."

"No, Mr. Boyne," she said.  "It's a mystery.
I'm glad, however, that auntie is recovering from
the shock."

"Have you heard anything lately of Mr.—what
is his name?—Durrant, isn't it?"

"Not a word.  I can't think what has become of
him.  They've heard nothing at his office since his
last telegram."

"Oh!  I shouldn't worry.  He told you in his
message not to worry, you know," he said cheerfully.

Marigold distrusted the man, yet she remembered
how she and Gerald had resolved, at all hazards, to
penetrate the mystery surrounding him.  She could
not deny that he had always been polite and
generous towards her, and her aunt would never have a
more kind and considerate master.

"Come and have some lunch with me," he suggested
suddenly, as he glanced at his watch.  "I'm
just going to have mine.  And I want to talk over
your aunt's future—what she is to do while my house
is being rebuilt."

Marigold hesitated a few seconds.  Then she
replied:

"I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Boyne, but my assistant
is away ill, and we're most awfully busy in the bank
to-day.  I am only out for ten minutes this morning,
I usually have half an hour."

"Then come somewhere and have dinner with me to-night."

"I can't to-night.  I'm going to the theatre with
a girl friend."

"To-morrow night, then," he said.  "I'll meet
you at Piccadilly tube station, say at seven, and we'll
dine somewhere—eh?"

Again Marigold hesitated.  She was naturally
distrustful, yet she argued within herself that perhaps
if she accepted his invitation she might learn from
him something of interest.

"No," he laughed merrily.  "I'm sure you won't
refuse me, Marigold.  I want to see what I can do for
your aunt—because—well, perhaps I may not set
up house again.  And I don't want to leave her in
the lurch, poor deaf old soul."

His solicitude for her aunt touched her, and so
she promised to meet him as he suggested.

Then two minutes later he raised his hat and
they parted.

As the girl sat with her glass of milk and
sandwiches before her in the little teashop, strange
thoughts crowded through her mind.  The refusal of
the police to assist her to find Gerald had hipped her,
and ever since the night of the fire she had gone
about utterly disconsolate and broken-hearted.  The
fire was mysterious, coming within an hour or so of
her visit to the police.  Yes; the more she reflected,
the stranger still appeared the whole enigma.

She returned to the bank and sat hour after hour
her books, but her only thought was of Gerald
the reason of his disappearance.

Next day, just before noon, while she was busy
at the bank, one of the male clerks came to her desk,
and said:

"Miss Ramsay, you're wanted on the telephone."

"Me!" exclaimed Marigold, much surprised, for
none of the staff were allowed to speak on the
telephone except upon urgent family affairs.  "Was this
one?"

She hurried to the telephone-box and heard a
female voice, which she recognised as that of Gerald's
sister at Ealing.

"You there, Marigold.  Listen!" she said.  "I've
just had a wire from Gerald.  It's sent from
Folkestone Harbour, and says:

.. vspace:: 2

"'*Back again.  Don't worry.  With you soon,
but not yet.  Marigold knows why.  Have wired
her.*—GERALD.'"

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, how lovely!" cried the girl over the 'phone
in wild delight.  "I expect I've got a wire at
Wimbledon.  I'll tell you what he says.  Such lots of
thanks for ringing up.  Good-bye.  I'll come over
and see you soon, dear.  Righto!"

And she hung up the receiver, her cheeks flushed
with the excitement of the good news.

Gerald—her Gerald—had spoken at last!

Further adding of figures that day was out of
the question.  She could not work, but, ever and
anon, she raised her eyes to the big clock, the hands
of which moved, oh! so slowly.  At last five o'clock
came, and she put her books away in the trolley ready
to be wheeled to the strong room by the uniformed
messenger, and putting on her hat and coat hurried
away home in the crowded tube.

She missed her train, and things seemed to move
too slow for her, but on arrival at the station she raced
home.  Yes, in the narrow hall of the little suburban
villa lay a telegram on the hat-stand.

She tore it open with frantic haste, and read:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Do not make inquiry about me.  Am quite safe,
and am in possession of some very important facts.
Just returned from abroad.  Be watchful, but do not
feel anxious.  Am quite all right.  Love.*—GERALD."

.. vspace:: 2

It reassured her.  She dressed and went out to
meet Mr. Boyne, carrying in her handbag the
treasured message from Folkestone Pier, together
with her powder-puff, her little mirror, and a few
hairpins.

She had no idea, however, that at the moment
when she was dressing to dine with her aunt's
benefactor, a lady with red-brown hair, having taken tea
at the Pavilion Hotel in Folkestone, was in a
first-class carriage in a boat express for London, and that
that same lady had only arrived in Folkestone a
couple of hours before, and on meeting the boat had
handed in the message at the office at the harbour.

She was at Piccadilly tube station quite early,
and it was fully ten minutes before Boyne put in an
appearance, smiling and happy.

"I'm so glad you've been able to come, Miss
Marigold," he exclaimed, as he shook hands with
her warmly.  "Now, we'll just go and have a little
dinner together, and talk about your aunt, eh?"

And he placed his hand upon her arm in a
paternal manner, and started to cross the road to
Coventry Street.  "There's a little Italian place in
Wardour Street where they do you excellently.  A
man I know told me of it the other day, and I dined
there a couple of nights ago and found things very
good.  Not much of a place to look at, but good,
well-cooked food.  So let's go there."

She walked with him, but unable to contain her
joy at receiving that reassuring wire from Gerald.
She said, as they walked along Coventry Street:

"I've had a wire to-night from Mr. Durrant.
He's all right."

"Have you really?  How excellent!" exclaimed
Boyne.  "What does he say?"

"He wires from Folkestone pier.  He's just
arrived back in England, and he says he's all right.
That's all."

"Well, what do you want more?  Your boy is
back, and no doubt you'll see him soon.  I've always
had in my mind that his absence has been due to
some secret mission given to him by his employer.
Those food people in Mincing Lane are profiteering
out of all conscience, and Durrant's absence is only
what might well be expected.  He will get a big
bonus for carrying out some little bit of delicate
diplomacy with regard to food supplies from
abroad."

They turned up Wardour Street, and presently
stopped in front of one of the small, unpretentious
little foreign restaurants, where one can always rely
upon good cooking, even though the quality of the
food sometimes leaves a little to be desired.

Not more than half a dozen people were in the
white-enamelled little place, but the proprietor, a
well-dressed, prosperous-looking little Italian, came
forward to greet them.

"Table for two—oh! yes.  You reserved it,
sare—I know!  This way, please."  And he conducted
them to a cosy spot in a corner where a table was
laid *à deux*.

Marigold, flushed with excitement on account of
the telegram in her bag, threw off her coat, settled
her blouse, and sat down opposite the man, while an
elderly waiter was quickly in attendance.

"I've ordered dinner," said Boyne, rather
impetuously.  "Antonio will know."  And he dismissed
him.

"I've told them to get a nice little dinner for us,"
he said, looking across at the girl.  "Well, now,
Miss Marigold," he went on.  "First, I'm delighted
that you could come and have dinner with me to-night.
Now that my house is no longer inhabitable, I live in
rooms at Notting Hill Gate.  But rooms are not like
one's own home, and especially with your aunt as
housekeeper.  A more economical woman never lived.
She'd save the egg-shells and turn them into money,
if she could!"

And they both laughed.

"Yes; auntie is very saving," replied the girl,
whose sole purpose in accepting the unusual invitation
was to try and draw her host, and so further the
plans set by her lover.

"Saving!  What I always say is that she's the
most perfect housekeeper anyone ever had.  That's
why I want to do something for her."

"It's really very good of you, Mr. Boyne," said
the girl, "I know now keenly she has always looked
after your interests."

"And I appreciate that, Miss Marigold.  Now,
my idea is to allow her two pounds a week till I
get settled again."

"Very generous of you, I'm sure," replied Marigold.
"With her infirmity, it's most difficult.  Her
deafness has increased the last six months, and she
could never get another situation now.  I'm sure of
that."

"Then you'll look after her if she has two pounds
a week regularly.—eh?"

"Yes.  She can come and live with me at
Wimbledon," the girl said.  "I'm sure auntie will
be very grateful," she added.  "Only a couple of
days ago she told me she was wondering what she
would do now that the house is burnt, and she
couldn't live with a neighbour for ever."

Boyne was silent for a few seconds.  The waiter
had placed the little plates of sardines, olives, and
sliced beet upon the table, the usual hors d'oeuvres
of the foreign restaurant.

The girl's host looked her in the face suddenly,
and asked:

"Tell me, Miss Marigold, what friends have you?"

"Relatives, you mean?  Well, practically none
who count, except auntie and my sister," she replied,
little dreaming that the man had put that question
with an ulterior motive—and a very sinister one,
too.

"And also Mr. Durrant," he laughed.

Marigold blushed.

"Don't fear.  He'll soon be back with you, and
no doubt explain matters."

The girl made no reply.  It was her own secret
that his absence was due to the inquiries he was
making concerning the past career of the plausible
and hard-working man who was at that moment her
host.

The soup was served, a clear *pot-au-feu*,
hot, and as the waiter turned away, Boyne drew
handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and next
moment a number of coins fell upon the floor.

Instantly Marigold drew her chair away from the
table and bent down to see where they were.  At
that moment Bernard Boyne executed a clever trick
which he had done before.  He flicked into the girl's
hot soup a piece of very soft gelatine that had been
extracted only half an hour before from one of those
mysterious blue glass tubes he had obtained from the
idiot-scientist hiding in Harpur Street.

The piece of gelatine fell into the soup unnoticed
by the girl, whose eagerness was centred upon the
picking up of the lost coins, and the other diners
only glanced across for a second, and did not notice
the dropping of that fatal dose.

"Don't bother," he said airily next moment.
"The waiter will find it.  They are really only
coppers.  I was foolish to put my handkerchief there.
Please don't bother.  Your soup will be cold."

And, thus reassured, the girl drank her soup
with her spoon and greatly enjoyed it—for it was
excellent.

Boyne watched her with complete satisfaction and
confidence.

The other courses were served: fillets of sole,
and a chicken *en casserole*, with mushrooms, in true
Continental style.  Then a cup in which were fruit,
ice-cream, and champagne, and black coffee afterwards.

The dinner Marigold agreed was excellent.  Boyne
smoked cigarettes and chatted merrily the whole time,
until at last he paid the bill and walked back with
her.

They shook hands, and she thanked him heartily.
Then they parted, Boyne promising to see old
Mrs. Felmore and pay her the amount he suggested.

As he strode along down the Haymarket, however,
on his way back to Pont Street, he laughed
aloud and muttered to himself:

"I don't think we shall be troubled with you,
young lady, after a few more days!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   "THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW"

.. vspace:: 2

Three days passed.  Marigold, on rising in the
morning of the third day, felt hot and feverish.  Her
sister had suggested that she should telephone to the
bank excusing herself.

"I think I've got a chill," Marigold remarked.  "I
felt rather queer yesterday."

"Then stay at home, dear."

"I can't," the girl declared as she put on her hat.
"We're so awfully busy just now.  Miss Meldrum
and Miss Page are both away with influenza.  I'm
bound to go."

So she went, but feeling very ill.  At the bank one
or two of the girls remarked how unwell she looked,
and as the morning wore on the pains in her head
became worse.  She could eat no lunch, and at two
o'clock she was compelled to return home to
Wimbledon.

She went straight to bed, but her friends troubled
little, for it was evident that she was run down by the
eternal anxiety over Gerald's absence, and that she
had caught a severe cold.

Next morning she seemed worse, therefore her
sister went for Doctor Thurlow, who lived in
Kenilworth Avenue; but he was so busy that it was not
possible for him to put in an appearance until nearly
seven o'clock that evening.

He examined the girl, and though he could not
diagnose the cause immediately, he at once
recognised that she was decidedly ill.  He prescribed a
mixture, gave certain instructions, and promised to
call early next morning.

This he did and found that her temperature had
risen, and that she was much worse and a little
delirious.  In her delirium she called constantly for
Gerald in a pathetic, piteous voice.

"Will my Gerald never come back to me?" she
cried.  "Will he never return?"

"She is ill—very ill," declared the doctor gravely
to her sister.  "We shall have to be extremely careful
of her."

Marigold was coughing badly, for already a large
area of her lungs had become involved and consolidated.
Hence the doctor carried a portion of the
sputum to his surgery, and that afternoon discovered
the presence of the deadly streptococcus.  On
establishing the actual disease he at once telephoned for
some anti-pneumococcic serum, and this he injected
into the patient early next morning.

Having done so, he turned to her sister, and said:

"I am extremely sorry to tell you that this is our
last hope.  She is, I fear, collapsing fast.  The
organism I have found is most deadly, and I think it
only right to tell you that my personal opinion is that
the disease has gone too far."

"What, Doctor?" gasped the young woman, pale
and anxious.  "Will she die?"

"That I cannot say, but I never like to deceive my
patients' friends in cases so critical as this.  To me
she seems to be growing weaker.  I will be back at
noon."

And the busy, white-headed doctor went out and
drove away in his car.

Now on that same morning about eleven o'clock
a tall, gaunt, hollow-eyed young man in a shabby
tweed suit and golf cap walked quickly up from the
Empress Dock at Southampton and across Canute
Road to the railway-station, where he bought a
third-class ticket for Waterloo.

"Back in England at last!" he muttered to himself
as he entered an empty compartment.  "I shall
soon see Marigold again!  Then we will get even
with our enemies."

The unshaven man was Gerald Durrant, changed
indeed from the spruce young secretary of Mincing
Lane.  He looked ten years older, for his face was
pinched though bronzed, and the suit he wore was
certainly never made for him.

The truth was that the steamer *Pentyrch*, of
Sunderland, ran into very bad weather in the Bay
of Biscay, and during a great storm off the Morocco
coast Captain Bowden thought it wise to put in for
shelter at the little port of Agadir.  One night, just
before the vessel weighed anchor to leave, Gerald
dived into the sea and succeeded in swimming ashore.

His absence was not noticed until three hours
later, when the vessel was well out to sea, and Captain
Bowden, having lost so much time, did not deem it
worth while to bother about a man who was no doubt
half a lunatic.

Gerald, however, succeeded, with the aid of a
friendly English trader, in getting by road from
Agadir to Mogador, where he told his strange story
to the British vice-consul, who in turn arranged a
passage for him on a small steamer homeward bound,
and gave him a little money, sufficient to pay his
railway fare from Southampton to London.

Truly, his had been an astounding adventure, and
now he was eagerly looking forward to the happy
reunion with the girl he loved so passionately.

All his belongings were in the small brown paper
parcel on the rack above him.  At the station he had
bought a packet of cigarettes, and as he smoked he
gazed reflectively out of the carriage window.  The
train was an express, but in his mood it seemed to be
the slowest in the world.

What would Marigold think of his long absence?
He had once or twice thought of telegraphing to her
from Mogador, or from Brest, where they had
touched, but he had deemed it best to return to her
suddenly and then wreak vengeance upon those who
had so cleverly plotted to inveigle him to that flat on
that never-to-be-forgotten night.

Waterloo—the new station with its bustle and
hurry!  He sprang from the carriage and took the
next train back to Wimbledon and then on to
Wimbledon Park.

At last he halted before the neat little villa with
its white painted balcony, and knocked.

Marigold's sister opened the door.

"Good heavens!" she gasped.  "Mr. Durrant, is
it really you?"

"It is!  I'm back again.  Where is Marigold?"

"Come in," she said.  "I-I-hardly know what
to say.  Marigold is—she's not very well."

And then in a few brief words as he stood in the
narrow hall she told him of his beloved's sudden
illness.

A second later he dashed upstairs, and then in
silence, treading, noiselessly, he advanced to the
bedside of the delirious girl, who with flushed face was
calling for "her Gerald."

Tenderly he placed his cool hand upon her brow.

"But surely she will live!" he cried in blank
despair.

"The doctor has grave doubts," her sister replied.
"She had such deep and constant anxiety regarding
your absence, Mr. Durrant, that her constitution
has become undermined.  And now she has caught
this terrible chill which has developed into acute
pneumonia."

"But people get over pneumonia!" he exclaimed.
"Surely Marigold will recover."

"The doctor told me this morning that the malady
is of the most virulent type.  There are few
recoveries."

"Few recoveries!" he echoed, while at the same
time the poor girl was murmuring something
incoherent regarding "Gerald."

"Yes.  He said that if she got well again it could
be only by a miracle.  The serum might do its work,
but—well, Mr. Durrant, I must tell you what he really
said—he told me that he regarded the case as
hopeless.  The crisis will be the day after to-morrow."

"The day after to-morrow," he said.  "And she
will not recognise me till then!"

All that the poor fellow had been through—the
tortures and horrors of that bondage in which
everyone believed him to be mentally irresponsible—were
as nothing.  He loved Marigold Ramsay with the
whole strength of his gallant manhood.  His soul
was hers.  They were soul-mates, and yet she was
slowly slipping away from him just at the moment
of his return and his intended triumph.

Her sister led him downstairs.  In the modest,
well-kept little dining-room below they had a further
conversation.

"She was, of course, from time to time reassured
by your telegrams.  By them she knew that you were
alive.  And they renewed her hope that you would
return."

"Telegrams!" echoed the man, who looked more
like an unkempt tramp than a business man.  "I
sent no telegrams!  What do you mean, Mrs. Baynard?"

"Why, the messages you sent.  She has them all
in her handbag."

"But I was unable to communicate with her.  I
was declared to be mad, and was sent upon a sea
voyage for the benefit of my health.  I now know
that it was for the benefit of Bernard Boyne!"

"I'll get her bag and show you.  Marigold has
kept them all," her sister said, and she left the room
for a few moments, returning with the dying girl's
black silk vanity bag, from which she drew several
telegrams carefully folded.

These he opened and examined, standing aghast
as he read them.

"Why!  I never sent a single one of them!"
he said.  "They're all forgeries!"

"What?" cried Marigold's sister and Hetty in
one breath—for her sister-in-law had entered the
room and greeted the man who had returned.

"I tell you I never sent any message to her," he
said.  "Somebody has done this.  Who?"

"Who can it be?" asked Hetty.

"I think I know," replied Gerald in a hard voice.
"If I am not mistaken my enemies have been revenged
upon me."

"Enemies!  What enemies?" asked Marigold's
sister.  "Surely you have no enemies.  I'm sure
Marigold hasn't."

"Wait and we shall discover the truth," said the
young man.  "Marigold must get well.  I have
certain questions to put to her.  She can tell us much
that is still mysterious concerning Mr. Boyne."

Hetty looked him full in the face and said:

"Jack, my husband, was over at Hammersmith
two days ago.  The place is all boarded up."

"What place?"

"Mr. Boyne's house in Bridge Place.  There's
been a fire there, and all the upper part has been
burned out.  Marigold was staying with her aunt
that night, and they both escaped just in the nick of
time."

"Repeat that," he said, half dazed.

Hetty repeated what she had said.

"Ah!  So the place has been burnt up, has it?
That's more than curious, isn't it?"

"Why?"

"Because of the mystery surrounding that man
Boyne," he said.

"Marigold ten days ago said that she didn't
believe that Mr. Boyne was as honest and sincere as
people believed, but really, I have never taken any
notice of her suspicions.  We all of us suspect one
of our friends."

"Marigold spoke the truth!  I agree entirely
with her.  There are certain facts—facts which I
have established—which show that this man Boyne—most
modest of men—is an adventurer of a new
and very extraordinary type.  He is engaged in some
game that is very sly, and by which he somehow
enriches himself by very considerable sums."

Gerald Durrant an hour later went up to Waterloo
and on to Hammersmith, where in the evening
he stood before the boarded-up ruins of the fire.  He
saw that the top floor had been destroyed.

"So the secret of that top room has been wiped
out," he remarked to himself.  "Why?  Did Boyne
suspect us of prying?  If he did, then what more
likely than he should put his slow, but far-reaching,
fingers upon us both.  That I should have been
drugged and placed on board a ship bound for the
other side of the world, and branded as a semi-lunatic,
is only what one might expect of such a master-brain!"

At a public-house in King Street, a few doors
from the end of Bridge Place, he got into conversation
with the landlord, who told him of the events of
that night when the house caught fire.

"It's an awful thing for poor old Boyne," he
added.  "Although he is an insurance agent, it seems
that, though he insured other people, he never
insured himself.  So he's ruined—so he told Mr. Dale,
the corndealer in Chiswick High Road, a week ago."

Gerald smiled but said nothing.  His thoughts
were upon the hooded recluse who lived on the top
floor of that dingy house.  What could have been
the real secret of that obscure abode?

A few other inquiries led him to the sombre house
with smoke-grimed curtains where deaf old
Mrs. Felmore had taken refuge, a few doors from the
smoke-blackened, half-destroyed house.

As he sat with the old woman he spoke to her
with difficulty, moving his lips slowly.

"Yes," replied the old woman in her high-pitched
voice, for all the deaf speak loudly.  "It is all very
curious—most curious!  They've never found out
how it caught fire."

From Bridge Place Gerald walked direct to the
Hammersmith police-station and, demanding to see
someone in authority, was ushered upstairs to that
same room into which Marigold had been shown,
and there sat the same detective-inspector, rosy-faced,
quiet and affable.

He listened to the roughly-clad young man's
story, until presently he said:

"Oh, you are Gerald Durrant, are you?"

"Yes," was his visitor's astonished reply.  "Why?"

"Well, we had a young lady inquiring about you
a little while ago.  She said you were missing, and
asked us to make inquiry.  But as you had wired to
her several times we considered that you had gone off
on your own account."

"Was Marigold here?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes, she came one night and told us of your
disappearance.  Where have you been?"

"Abroad.  I only returned to-day."

"That's what I told the young lady.  You
promised in your telegrams to come back."

"But I never sent any telegrams; they were all
forged."

The detective regarded him steadily and with an
air of doubt.

"Then why did you go away?  What was your
motive in frightening the poor girl?" he asked.

"I went involuntarily.  I—well, I suppose I must
have been drugged and put on board a ship at Hull."

"H'm!  What ship?"

Gerald gave the name of the ship and of its
captain, which the detective scribbled down.

"Yes.  You'd better tell me the whole of your
story.  It seems rather a curious one."

"It is," declared Durrant, and he proceeded to
describe what happened on that fateful night when he
met the two ladies in distress outside Kensington
Gardens.

The detective listened attentively, but noting
Gerald's unkempt appearance and rough dress,
together with his excited manner, he came to the
conclusion that what he was relating was a mere
exaggerated tale concocted with some ulterior motive,
which to him was not apparent.

At last, when Durrant began to describe Bernard
Boyne's strange doings in Bridge Place, the inspector
interrupted him.

"The house has been burned, as I dare say you know."

"Yes," replied Gerald vehemently, "purposely
burned for two reasons.  First, to destroy evidence
of whatever was contained in that upstairs room,
together with its occupant——"

"Then you think someone lived up there—eh?"

"I feel absolutely sure of it."

"You only believe it," said the officer.  And after
a pause he asked: "And what was the second
motive?"

"To get rid of Miss Ramsay—for that night, after
visiting you, she went back and slept there in order
to keep her aunt company."

The detective smiled.  Then, after a pause, he said:

"Mr. Boyne is very well-known and popular in
Hammersmith, you know.  Everyone has a good
word for him.  He is honest, hard-working, and often
shows great kindness to poor people whose insurance
policies would lapse if he did not help them over the
stile.  No, Mr. Durrant; Bernard Boyne is certainly
not the daring and relentless criminal you are trying
to make him out.  Indeed, I hear that, by the fire at
his house, he's lost nearly all he possessed.  He wasn't
insured."

"Why is it that by day he collects insurance
premiums here, and yet at night puts on an evening
suit and dines at the most expensive restaurants in
the West End?" demanded Gerald, furious that his
story was being dismissed by the police.

"Ah!  He may have some motive.  Many men
who earn their money in a hard manner by day go
into the West End at night dressed as gentlemen.
He may have some motive.  He may have some rich
clients, for all we know."

"I see you are dubious of the whole affair!"
exclaimed Gerald.  "I've only come here to tell you
what I know."

"And I thank you for coming," replied the detective.
"But we cannot act upon your mere suspicions.
You must bring us something more tangible than
that before we institute inquiries.  I regret it," he
added; "but we cannot help you.  If you had any
direct evidence of incendiarism it would be different."

And, thus dismissed, Gerald Durrant descended
the stairs with heavy heart and hopeless foreboding,
and walking out, made his way back to Wimbledon
Park, where Marigold lay dying.





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.. _`AT THE WINDOW`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII


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   AT THE WINDOW

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On that same afternoon the Red Widow was seated
with Boyne in Lilla's pretty drawing-room in Pont
Street.

She had come there hurriedly in response to a
telephone message from Boyne's wife, and they were
now holding a council of war to decide upon their
actions in future.

"The only danger that can possibly threaten us
is that infernal French girl and her lover," Boyne
assured them, as he leaned back lazily in a silken
easy chair, and puffed at his cigarette.  He was
smartly dressed with a white slip in his waistcoat,
fawn spats, and patent leather shoes.  "At the present
moment they hold their tongues in the hope of
squeezing more money from us.  Meanwhile we shall
collect the sum assured upon dear Augusta, and
quietly leave England for a little while.  A pity the
sum is not larger," he added.

"I was only thinking the same the other day,"
said Ena.  "But how about that girl Ramsay?"

"Oh, the end ought to be to-day, or at least
to-morrow.  I've made secret inquiries in Wimbledon
Park, and I hear that the doctor gave her up a day
or so ago," he said grimly.

"That will be another distinct peril removed,"
remarked Lilla.  "It serves the girl right for being too
inquisitive."

"And the man Durrant cannot be back yet, eh?"
asked Ena.

"No," was Boyne's reply.  "I see by the papers
that the ship has arrived at Cape Town.  Even if he
escaped there, and found his way back, he could
not arrive in London for another three weeks or more.
So when he does return—if he ever does—he will
find Marigold silent in her grave, that a disaster has
occurred in Bridge Place, and that we are no longer
in London."

"And Lionel?" asked the Red Widow.

"Oh, we have nothing to fear from him.  He's
only a gibbering idiot who believes my story that
he committed a crime—killed a little girl named
Maggie—although he was quite innocent.  I made
him wear a hood whenever he saw me, and I did the
same.  He believed me to be a man named Wisden,
the witness of his crime!  And because of that he
executed in blind obedience every order I gave him.
The fact that for months he never saw my face
impressed him, and thus the terror of the police has so
got upon his unstrung nerves that he is fast going
from bad to worse.  As a bacteriologist he is, of
course, wonderful.  He was marked out as a coming
man by the professors at the Laboratory at Oxford,
before he took to drugs and his brain gave way."

"Where is he now?" asked Ena.

Boyne explained the man's hiding-place, adding:
"I've given him money to go on with.  When that
is finished—well, we will consider what we shall do."

"We shall want him again, no doubt," laughed Ena.

"Probably," said Boyne.  "But remember, if
there are any awkward inquiries—as there may be
if we can't settle completely with Céline—then we
must be absent from London for a year or two."

"That's a pity," declared the Red Widow.
"Recollect what I said regarding that woman Vesey,
whose hair is almost similar to mine.  I met her at
Brighton some time ago, and we became very
chummy.  She has a place in Gloucestershire.  And
that other woman Sampson.  Both affairs would be
so easy—ten thousand each."

"I know, my dear Ena, but let us square up this
present deal first.  That solicitor in the City is
horribly slow.  He is out of town till to-morrow.  Time
is going on.  Each day brings us nearer open
hostilities with Céline, therefore I suggest that Lilla
should remain to receive the money and settle up,
while you and I get away.  I propose going to Spain,
and you—well, you know Sweden well.  Why not
slip over to Stockholm?  We will all meet again,
say, at Trouville in six weeks' time, and hold another
consultation," suggested the man.

"Yes," Lilla said.  "That's all very well.  But
it means that I'm to be left alone to face Céline!"

"Well, it's the only way," declared her husband.
"It is not wise for all of us to await the payment.
I agree that the solicitor might easily have obtained
a settlement of the claim ere this—especially as it is
not disputed.  But the more respectable the solicitor
the slower he is."

"Are you sure that the fire at Bridge Place has
aroused no suspicion?" asked Ena.  "After a fire
there's always an inquiry as to how it originated."

"Yes, when the place is insured.  But mine was
not—intentionally," Boyne replied, with a grin.
"We couldn't afford that upstairs laboratory to be
discovered.  Besides, there was enough stuff in the
tubes to kill a whole town—all sorts of infectious
diseases, from anthrax to bubonic plague.  Lionel
dabbled with them, and gleefully cultivated them
with his broth and his trays and tubes of gelatine."

"Well, as long as you are quite certain we are
not watched, I don't care," said the handsome woman,
who was so often seen at table at the Ritz, the Carlton,
and the Berkeley.  "If we were, it would be most
dangerous to meet, even as we are doing now."

"Bah!  You are both growing very nervy!"
laughed Boyne derisively.  "It is so foolish.  Nothing
serious can happen.  Even when the French girl
grows greedy, we can always settle with her.
Between us we have laid up a nice little nest-egg for
the future.  I reckoned it out yesterday.  The game
is one of the few which is worth the candle."

"And the people in their graves are better off!"
laughed Lilla, who was utterly heartless and
unscrupulous.

Boyne rose and obtained a fresh cigarette, while
his wife rang the bell for tea.

The latter was brought in upon a fine old
Sheffield plate tray, and Lilla poured it out.

When the man-servant had gone, the Red
Widow, turning to Boyne's wife, said:

"I really think, Lilla, after what Bernie has
suggested, that I shall plead illness and get away.  I
shall tell my friends I am going to Sicily, but
instead I shall run over to Stockholm.  I know lots
of friends there.  Indeed, we might carry on our
affairs there later.  The Scandinavian is a good
insurance company."

"English companies are better," Boyne declared.
"I have little faith in foreign insurance companies.
They always want to know just a little too much to
suit our purpose.  I've studied them all.  My first
case was in Milan eight years ago, and it nearly
ended in disaster.  I had to clear out suddenly and
leave my claim—which has never been paid.  And I
wasn't clumsy, I assure you.  I got the stuff from
old 'Grandfather' of Frankfurt."

"Oh!  'Grandfather.'  I've heard his name before,"
said Ena.  "He sells tubes, doesn't he?"

"Sells them!  Of course he did—and still does.
You have to be well introduced, and he charges you
very high, but his stuff is first-class—quite as good
as Lionel's.  'Grandfather' I met once in the
Adlon, in Berlin—a funny old professor with long
hair.  But, by Jove! he must have made a big
fortune by this time.  He charged a hundred pounds
for a single tube of anthrax, sleeping sickness, or
virulent pneumonia—and double for a certain poison
which creates all the post-mortem symptoms of
heart-disease, and cannot be detected."

"Well now?" asked Lilla, sipping her tea from
the pretty Crown Derby cup.  "What are we to do?"

"As Bernie suggests, I think," said Ena.  "I'll
get away, and next day Bernie can go to Paris, and
on by the Sud Express to Madrid."

"Then on to Barcelona," said Boyne.  "I'm
known there as Mr. Bennett.  I've stayed once or
twice at the Hôtel Colon."

"No.  I really can't be left alone," said Lilla.
"As soon as you have gone that girl Céline will call."

"Don't see her, dear," urged the Red Widow.

"Oh!  That's all very well, but I can't be out
each time she comes.  I should be compelled to see
her.  And no doubt she would have the man with
her.  Then, when she found out that you had both
gone, she would turn upon me."

"No, no," laughed Boyne.  "You will have
money ready to give her if she turns very hostile, so
as to afford us further time.  Their only game is
blackmail.  They suspect something concerning the
old man at Chiswick—thanks to talking too loud in
the presence of one's servants.  It ought to be a
lesson to us all."

"It is, Bernie," said the Red Widow, rising from
her chair and crossing the room to get her handbag
which she had left on the sofa by the window.

As she took it up, she chanced to glance out into
the street.

"My God!" she gasped.  And next second she
sprang from the window.  Her face was white as
paper.  "My God!" she repeated, reeling, and
steadying herself by the back of a chair.

"What's happened?" asked Boyne, springing up.

"No, no!  For Heaven's sake, don't go near the
window.  He has seen me—I'm sure he recognised me!"

"Who?"

"Emery—that solicitor in Manchester!  He—he—knows
me as—as Augusta Morrison—the dead woman!"

"And did he see you?" cried Boyne in a low,
hoarse voice.  "Are you certain?"

"Well—no—I—I'm not absolutely certain.  He
was looking up at the house, and he's coming here."

At that second the front door electric bell rang.

All three started.

"Why is he here?" asked Lilla.  "Are inquiries
already on foot?"

"If they are, then our game is up," declared Ena.
"You must receive him, Lilla, but you must deny
all knowledge of me.  You know nothing of Augusta
Morrison."

"But he may call at Upper Brook Street," said
Boyne quickly.  "You must not return there."

"Did he recognise me?  That's the question,"
asked Ena, still pale to the lips.

A second later the man entered with a card upon
his salver—the card of the Manchester solicitor,
Mr. Emery.

"Oh!" exclaimed Lilla, taking it up.  "Oh,
yes—show him up."

Then as soon as the man had left, Ena slipped
upstairs into one of the bedrooms to hide, in
company with Bernard Boyne.

When the young Manchester solicitor was ushered
in, he found the tea-things cleared—which had been
effected several minutes before—and Lilla rose to
greet him.

"I believe you are Mrs. Braybourne," he said,
bowing.  "My name is Emery.  I am the solicitor
who effected a policy on the life of the late
Mrs. Augusta Morrison in your favour.  My client, I hear,
with much regret, has died, and I understand from
the company that you have put in your claim."

Mrs. Braybourne admitted that it was so, and
offered her visitor a seat.

"I came this morning from Manchester, in order
to consult with your solicitor," he went on.
"Mrs. Morrison was a personal friend of mine, and she told
me that she had, since her husband's death,
discovered that she was indebted to Mr. Braybourne,
hence her insurance on the assignment of the policy."

"It came as a great surprise to me," said Lilla,
with her innate cleverness.  "I had not the pleasure
of knowing Mrs. Morrison, though I met her husband
several times, years ago.  My late husband was
a friend of his."

"So she told me when we were together at Llandudno,"
Emery said.  "It was certainly very generous
of her to try and make reparation for some wrong
which her husband did to Mr. Braybourne.  But I
confess I am somewhat surprised."

"At what?" asked the pseudo widow.

"Well—she gave me the impression that you were
a person of limited means.  But that does not appear
so," he said, glancing around the luxurious little
apartment.

Lilla smiled quite calmly.  She was uncertain
whether her very unwelcome visitor had recognised
Ena through the window as his client, the false
Augusta Morrison.

"Of course, I have no idea what Mrs. Morrison
told you concerning myself.  I only know that my
late husband was interested in certain business
transactions with Mr. Morrison up in Scotland," she said,
with an air of ignorance.

"True, Mrs. Braybourne; but how is it that you
have instructed your solicitors here to press a claim
of which you now declare you had no knowledge?"

For a second Lilla was cornered; but her quick
woman's wit came to her aid, and smiling quite
calmly, she said:

"Well, to tell you the truth, a solicitor of
Mrs. Morrison in London wrote me quite recently,
explaining in strict confidence the position and the
efforts your client had made to make reparation for
her husband's swindling.  All I know is that
Mr. Morrison's business morality left a great deal to be
desired, and we came very near ruin.  Indeed, we
should have been ruined, had it not been for
assistance I received from my father."

"In what way?" asked the keen young lawyer.

"Well—I think I need not go into such details,"
said the clever woman with whom he was confronted.
"Your client, no doubt, admitted to you her
husband's double-dealing and how he very nearly ruined
us.  It was because of that Mrs. Morrison of
Carsphairn insured her life in my favour."

Young Mr. Emery nodded, but his lips curled in
a smile of incredulity.  He paused for several
moments, his gaze fixed upon the woman.

"Well," he said at last, "I have been at the head
office of the company to-day, after I found that your
legal adviser was absent, and—well, to tell you the
truth, they are not altogether satisfied."

"Who?" asked Lilla, in surprise.

"The insurance company."

"Why?"

Again Mr. Emery paused, again he fixed his eyes
upon the woman before him.  He slowly rose from
his chair and walked to the fireplace, whereupon
he drew himself up.  Placing his hands in his trousers
pockets, he said, in a changed voice:

"Mrs. Braybourne, just because I have interested
myself, rather unduly perhaps, in the affairs of my
late client, Mrs. Morrison, I find myself confronted
by several problems.  I want you to assist me to
solve at least one of them."

"And what is that?" asked Lilla, quite calmly.

"Simply this," he said, fixing his dark eyes upon
her.  "I want you to explain the fact why, as I came
along the street, I should see, standing here in your
window, my late client, Mrs. Augusta Morrison?"





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.. _`ON THIN ICE`:

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   CHAPTER XXIX


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   ON THIN ICE

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Lilla drew herself up, and looked her unwelcome
interrogator full in the face with unwavering gaze.

"Mrs. Morrison?" she echoed.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean, madam, that as I approached this house
Mrs. Morrison was looking out of the window."

Lilla laughed.  Though greatly perturbed, she
had been forewarned, and preserved an outward calm.

"Really, Mr. Emery," she laughed, "you must be
mistaken.  I have not the pleasure of knowing
Mrs. Morrison.  I only knew her husband, who came to see
us several times when we lived in Kensington.  His
wife lived in Scotland, but I was never acquainted
with her."

"Do you mean to insist that you have never seen her?"

"Never in my life—to my knowledge," was the
frank reply.

"But I insist that my eyes have not deceived me,
and that she was in your window a few minutes ago."

Again Lilla laughed.

"Well, Mr. Emery, though you and I have
never met before, I can't help thinking that you
are—well, just a little eccentric," she said.  "You come
here and declare that you have seen at my window
a woman who is dead."

"Ah, but is she really dead, Mrs. Braybourne?"
asked the shrewd young man, who had of late been
getting together an extensive legal practice in
Manchester.

"My dear Mr. Emery, ask yourself," Lilla replied.
"I understand that the poor lady's sister was present
at the end and took a last look at her before the coffin
was screwed down.  Surely her sister would know
her?  I am, of course, in utter ignorance of the facts,
But I think, before you make such foolish mistakes
as you are doing, you had better inquire—don't you?"

Her argument was rather disconcerting.  Charles
Emery felt certain that he had seen the face of the
dead woman at the window.  Yet, if it were true that
her sister had seen her in her coffin, then surely his
eyes had deceived him.

Upstairs Boyne and Ena stood together in breathless
wonder at what was in progress below.  Boyne
knew how clever his wife was, and how, when faced
with difficulties, she always became so calm and
innocent.  Of that he had had proof many times.
Their marital relations had been such that he had
long ago felt she was a super-woman in the art of
deception.

But here she was faced with a perilous problem,
and both Ena and he knew it.

They stood together, conversing in whispers.

"Trust Lilla," said Boyne in a low voice.  "She
will wriggle out of anything.  Besides, she had the
tip that the fellow may have recognised you."

Below the young solicitor and Lilla were still in
open hostility.

Emery had grown angry.  The woman had accused
him of an undue suspicion.

"Lots of people, especially those who are spooky,
believe in a sixth sense," she said.  "Surely you don't
believe in it, do you, Mr. Emery?  I do not.  Do you
really insist that in my window you have seen the
face of a woman who is dead and buried?  If so—well,
you've got the sixth sense, and it would be more
profitable to you to go into the Other World Combine—which,
I believe, is being formed—than to practise
law.  Personally, I only wish I had a sixth sense.
Oh, what a lot concerning other people's affairs I
should know—eh?"

And she laughed lightly, as though highly amused.

Emery stood in silence.  She could see that he
was still unconvinced.  The situation was one of the
most perilous they had ever faced.

"To tell you the truth, Mrs. Braybourne, I'm
not at all satisfied," said the young man frankly.
"I feel confident that the woman's face I saw at your
window was that of Mrs. Augusta Morrison."

"How utterly ridiculous!" declared the clever
adventuress.  "If Mrs. Morrison's sister and other
relatives saw her at the nursing home before and
after her death they must have recognised her.  How
therefore, can the lady possibly be alive?  It's silly
to imagine such a thing!"

"Well," he asked, "who first informed you that
the late Mrs. Morrison had assigned her life policy
to you?"

"A man I know named May, who was a friend
of my husband and of the late Mr. Morrison."

"And how did he know, pray?"

"How can I tell?  He knew Mrs. Morrison, I
believe, and he used to stay at her house-parties
at Carsphairn.  Possibly she might have told him."

"When did you see him?"

"I haven't seen him lately," she replied quickly,
a fiction ready to her lips.  "He rang me up about
three days after Mrs. Morrison's death and told me
of the sad event, of which I, of course, was in
complete ignorance.  Then he told me that she had
insured her life for my benefit.  I asked him how he
knew that; but he only laughed and said that he
knew, and would send, me particulars of the assignment
of the policy, and that I had better take steps
at once to establish my claim—which naturally I did,
after receiving a few notes of the assignment.  I
made out a full account of my late husband's dealings
with Mr. Morrison—how he had very nearly brought
us to ruin—and placed them with the notes of the
assignment in the hands of my solicitor, who, I
suppose, in due course approached the insurance
company.  Previously, however, I had heard of the fact
from another source—a solicitor—as I have already
told you."

"H'm!" Emery grunted.  Then, after a pause,
he asked:

"Do you happen to know a certain lady living in
Upper Brook Street named Mrs. Pollen?"

"Pollen?  Pollen?" repeated Lilla.  "The name
sounds familiar.  She's a society hostess—a woman
who often has her photograph in the picture papers,
isn't she?" she asked, with well-affected ignorance.

"I think not.  I've never seen her portrait in the
papers.  She was, however, a friend of Mrs. Morrison."

"I'm afraid I know nothing of Mrs. Morrison's
friends.  My husband knew some of them, of course.
And I have to thank Morrison for bringing ruin to
us.  He made huge profits over these business deals
and bought Carsphairn, while my husband went
under and would have been down and out had it not
been for my family, who assisted him on his legs
again."

"Well, in any case, you seem to live in very easy
circumstances to-day, Mrs. Braybourne," he
remarked, glancing around the luxurious room.

"Oh, I don't know," Lilla laughed lightly.  "In
London we put all the goods in the window—you
don't up in Lancashire."

An awkward pause ensued.

"Well, Mrs. Braybourne," he said at last, "I
cannot conceal from myself that there are certain
peculiar circumstances which must be cleared up."

"About what?" she asked in pretended innocence.

"About this curious claim of yours.  The assignment
of the policy was, of course, in my hands, and
it is not at all clear how your mythical friend Mr. May
gained knowledge of what the late Mrs. Morrison
desired to keep secret."

"As I've told you, Mr. May gave me particulars
regarding it, which I duly handed to my solicitors.
If Mrs. Morrison, in a fit of remorse for her husband's
sharp practice, as it seems, chose to insure her life
for my benefit, I don't see, Mr. Emery, why you
should raise any objection," she protested.  "She was
your client, I presume?"

"She was," he replied.  "And because I also
acted as agent of the insurance company, I now
consider it my duty to put all the facts before them,
together with my allegation that the dead woman is
actually in this house, or was when I entered here."

"Really, you are most insulting!" declared Lilla
with well-feigned indignation.  "I think it gross
impertinence and a breach of professional etiquette that
you should come here to see me and accuse me of
lying when the matter is in the hands of my solicitor."

"Ah, Mrs. Braybourne.  Pardon me, please; I
only wish to straighten things out," he said blandly.
"At present they are a little too tangled to suit me,"
he went on.  "When I have given over the facts to
the company my responsibility is at an end.  Your
solicitor returns to London to-morrow, and I will
have a consultation, with a view to a settlement—in
some way or other," he added in a meaning tone.

Then he bowed coldly and took his departure.

The instant he had left, the trio of dealers in secret
death held a hurried and excited council.

"The game is up!" declared Ena, her countenance
blanched to the lips.  "The Fates are against us.
How dare we press our claim further, and if we do
not, then our failure to do so is self-condemnation."

"He's a shrewd young chap.  He certainly
recognised you—curse it!" cried Boyne.

"We must get away," said Lilla.  "We all of us
have old Jackie James's passports.  And it only
remains for us to clear out at once."

"Old Jackie's passports" to which she had referred
were those cleverly fabricated since the war by an
old man named James who lived at Notting Hill
Gate, and who had at one time been a notorious
forger.  He now made a very excellent living by
supplying crooks and criminals of all classes with
false passports in neat little blue books, on which then
photograph was fixed, and he himself embossed it
with the stamp bearing the British royal arms and the
words "Foreign Office," as well as the rubber date
stamp, at an inclusive cost of fifteen pounds each.

These passports were beautifully printed in Bilbao,
in Spain, together with the British red sixpenny
stamp, but completed ready for the purchaser at
Notting Hill Gate.

"Though I never like leaving good money behind,"
said Boyne, "I must admit that our luck is
quite out this time, and we must all lie doggo for
a bit."

"Ena must not return to Upper Brook Street,
for Emery is certain to go there," Lilla said.

"Curse the fellow!" cried the Red Widow.  "It's
all my fault!  I ought to have exercised more care,
but Bernie has always been so cocksure that
everything was plain sailing."

"No," he protested.  "Surely I can't be accused
of your indiscretions, Ena.  I've done my best—just
as we all have done—but we've fortunately received
warning in time that the game is at an end—at least,
for a little while.  We can resume it in France, or
probably in America later on.  All that remains now
is for us to swiftly and quietly fade out and leave them
all guessing."

"One good feature is that the girl Ramsay will
not be able to tell them anything," said Lilla.  "I've
always doubted her from the first.  She's a cunning
little cat."

"Yes.  The end ought to be to-day—or to-morrow
at latest," Boyne said.

"And by that time we shall all three be well on
our way abroad."

Then they began to discuss ways and means, the
destination of each of them, and the matter of money,
there being three deposits in different London banks
in different names.

The Red Widow and her companions had long
ago taken every ingenious precaution in case of
enforced flight at a moment's notice.  There were,
indeed, three separate sets of baggage lying at the
waiting-room of Victoria Station.  But the banks
were closed and no money could be obtained.

In the meantime the young Manchester solicitor,
much puzzled, of course, had taken a taxi and alighted
in Upper Brook Street.

Of the hall-porter he made inquiry regarding
Mrs. Pollen, and was taken up in the lift.

At the door of the flat he rang, and a smart maid
answered.

"I want to see Mrs. Pollen," he said with his
best smile.

"Mrs. Pollen isn't at home, sir," the girl replied.

"Dear me!" he said, deeply disappointed.  "I've
come up from the country specially to see her.  When
will she be back?"

"I don't know.  Perhaps not till the evening, sir."

Emery paused.  He was arriving at an estimate
of the maid's loyalty to her mistress.

"Well," he said, "my business is most important—upon
money matters.  May I come in and write
her a note?"

"Madam has forbidden me to allow anyone inside
during her absence," replied the good-looking,
dark-eyed girl.

"Of course, she fears thieves.  But I'm a
solicitor," and he showed her his card.  "Please
don't think I'm a thief—eh?" and he laughed
merrily.

The girl looked at the card and then allowed him
in, showing him into the dining-room, upon the table
of which was a great bowl of La France roses—the
room in which his client, Mrs. Augusta Morrison,
had been entrapped and done to death so insidiously.

"There's paper there, I think, sir," she said,
indicating a small writing-table set near the window.

He seated himself, though his quick eyes took
in all the surroundings.

Before he began to write, he saw in a broad silver
frame before him a large photograph of his client,
Mrs. Morrison.

"That's a beautiful portrait," he remarked to the girl.

"Yes, sir.  Mistress had it done about three months
ago.  It's very good of her."

Charles Emery bit his lip and managed to stifle
the ejaculation which rose to his lips.

The truth was out!  It was Ena Pollen whom he
had seen at Mrs. Braybourne's window, and Ena
Pollen had, he saw, posed for insurance purposes
as Mrs. Augusta Morrison—the rich widow of
Carsphairn.

For a moment the discovery dumbfounded him.
He scribbled a few lines.  Then he tore them up, and,
making excuse for troubling the maid, he rose and
said he would call next day.  Then he pressed into
her hand a ten-shilling note.

But just before he took his leave, he turned to her
in the hall, and asked suddenly:

"Oh, by the way, has Mrs. Morrison been here
to visit your mistress lately?"

"Not lately, sir," she answered.  "Poor lady, she's
dead, so I hear."

"Did she often visit your mistress?"

"Yes, sir.  The last time she was here was at a
dinner party with Mr. and Mrs. Braybourne."

"Oh!  Then Mrs. Braybourne is a friend of your
mistress, is she?  I know her quite well.  She lives in
Pont Street, eh?"

"Yes, sir; she's a very great friend," was the girl's
reply.  "So is Mr. Braybourne."

"And who is Mr. Braybourne?"

"Why, Mrs. Braybourne's husband, of course."

As Emery descended the stairs to the street he
wondered who could be "Mr. Braybourne"—if
Mrs. Braybourne was a widow, as alleged.

At the end of the street he hailed a taxi and returned
at once to the head office of the insurance
company, where he revealed certain other suspicions
which had arisen in his mind after his interview with
Mrs. Braybourne.





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.. _`THROUGH THE DARKNESS`:

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   CHAPTER XXX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THROUGH THE DARKNESS

.. vspace:: 2

Events happened apace.

The criminal dovecot in Pont Street was now
seriously disturbed.

Even Boyne, usually so calm and unruffled in
face of any peril or difficulty, saw that matters had
grown very serious.  He was in complete ignorance
of the return of Gerald Durrant.  Nor did he know
that at Wimbledon Park the doctor, on calling again
late that afternoon, had pronounced that the serum
was doing its work, and that Marigold was decidedly
better.

It had been just a toss-up.  According to his
judgment, the serum injected to fight the germs of
disease had been administered a few hours too late.
The human machine is, however, a curious thing,
and the throw of the dice with Death is always
weighted upon the side of the living.

Gerald, pale, anxious, and emaciated after all the
hardships he had gone through, sat by the bedside
of his well-beloved, watching her eagerly.

To his delight, she was slowly recovering.  It is
one of the features of the malady from which
Marigold was suffering—thanks to the brutal plot to kill
her—that after a certain fixed period, death
supervenes or recovery comes very quickly.

In her case the doctor himself was agreeably
surprised.  She was recovering, he had said!  She
would yet live to cheat her enemies!

Gerald, realising this, was in the seventh heaven
of delight.  He was, of course, in ignorance of what
had transpired at Pont Street, or of the suspicion of
Charles Emery, the man who had made the actual
assignment of Mrs. Morrison's insurance.

On the following morning, after hearing the
doctor's good news, he sat beside Marigold's bed,
and by slow degrees the girl recognised her lover as
he bent over her and tenderly kissed her upon the
brow.

The light of recognition suddenly shone in her
eyes, and smiling, she gripped his hand.

"Yes, darling, I am home again!" he said in
a soft voice.  "Home—to find that you are getting
better.  You've been very ill.  But you'll soon be
well again, thank God!"

For some moments the girl was too overcome by
emotion to speak, but at last her lips moved, and in
a voice scarcely audible she pronounced his name.

"Gerald!" she articulated with difficulty, raising
her hand until it rested against his cheek.  "Gerald!
*My Gerald*!"

"Yes, darling!  I am here with you!" he assured
her soothingly, for they were alone together, the
doctor having just left.  "You have been very, very
ill."

"Yes," she whispered, "very ill."

Then she closed her eyes for fully five minutes,
as though the strain of speaking had been too much
for her, while he sat at her bedside watching breathlessly
the white countenance of the girl who was all
in all to him.

At last she again opened her eyes, and in a voice
scarce above a whisper, asked:

"Where have you been all this long, long time?"

"Abroad, dear.  But don't worry about that!
I'm back," he said cheerfully.  "Back with you.
Rest, and you will soon be quite well again."

Again she closed her eyes and turned her head
slightly upon the pillow.  And as she did this, Gerald
again kissed her upon the brow.

About two hours later her condition showed a
marked improvement, but Gerald had not left her side
for a moment.

At noon she seemed so much better that he
decided to go over to Ealing and obtain a suit of his
own clothes, so as to make himself more presentable.
This he did.

His sister was naturally delighted to see him,
but save for a brief explanation of his absence he did
not enter into any details concerning it.  His anxiety
was to return to Wimbledon Park.  He had at first
contemplated going to Mincing Lane to explain his
absence, but had now decided to postpone that until
the morrow.

So about three o'clock he was back again at
Marigold's bedside, delighted to find the great
improvement which had taken place during the past
few hours.  The serum was doing its work, and
slowly she was returning to her old self again.

When they were alone, and Gerald was once more
seated beside her, she turned to him, and in a low,
intense voice asked if her sister had told him of the
fire in Bridge Place.

"Yes, dearest," he answered.  "I know all about
it.  I've seen the ruin, and I've talked to your aunt.
You both had narrow escapes!"

"Mr. Boyne—set—it—on—fire—Gerald," she said
weakly, "so as to get rid of what was in that
upstairs room!"

"Without a doubt."

"I—I tried to learn more about it.  That's—well,
that's why I dined with Mr. Boyne."

"You dined with him?" echoed her lover.

"Yes—in order to try and learn something more.
Did we not agree to keep a watchful eye upon him?"

"We did.  But I fell into a cunningly devised
trap on the night I disappeared," he said.  "I will
describe it to you later.  Well, when you dined with
the fellow, did you discover why he spends his
evenings among those smart people in the West End?"

"No, Gerald; but I came to the conclusion that
he is a very remarkable crook."

"Of that I'm certain, dear.  We've both had proof
of it.  He knew we were watching him, and his
intention, no doubt, was to get rid of both of us."

"Yes, I quite agree," replied the girl faintly, yet
smiling into his face.  Then she added: "Do you
know, Gerald, that—that ever since I dined with
Mr. Boyne I haven't been the same.  I felt ill next
morning, and gradually the illness increased, until I had
to go to bed and the doctor came to see me."

Gerald Durrant knit his brows.

"By Gad!" he gasped.  "I—I never thought of
that!  He invited you to dinner—eh?"

In reply to his question, Marigold described the
chance meeting near the bank and the invitation that
followed.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, after a pause.  "He had
got rid of me, and intended that you should die—truly
a most diabolical plot!  I see it all!  But we
will be even with him yet, darling—never fear!"

Assuring the girl that he would return very soon,
Gerald Durrant left the house determined to take
direct action.  His failure to convince the police at
Hammersmith that "Busy" Boyne, the pious insurance
agent, was a master-criminal, had irritated and
angered him.  Probably if he went direct to Scotland
Yard and re-told the story, laying stress upon the
plots against Marigold and himself, they would hear
him and make some investigation.

The mystery of that upstairs room and its weird
occupant was ever uppermost in his mind.  And now
that it was destroyed, it made it plainer than ever that
there had been some guilty secret hidden there.

He went to Charing Cross, and presently entered
the headquarters of the Criminal Investigation
Department at Scotland Yard, where he was courteously
received by Detective-Inspector Shaw in one of the
cold, bare, official waiting-rooms.

The inspector, a short, stout, brusque man,
listened very patiently to the strange story related to
him, and once or twice jotted down notes.  But his
countenance was imperturbable, and Gerald's heart
had already sunk within him, for he saw that he was
quite unimpressed.

At last Shaw stirred himself, and said:

"Well, Mr. Durrant, all that you've just told me
is extremely interesting.  Will you wait a few
moments?" and rising, he left the room.  On his
return five minutes later, he asked Gerald to
accompany him.  They went together down a long corridor,
where the young man was ushered into a comfortable
office.  A well-dressed man of rather dapper appearance
was seated at a table, and Gerald was invited to
a chair, when he was closely questioned, more especially
regarding his observations and those of Marigold
upon the houses in Pont Street and Upper Brook
Street, and also concerning the trap into which he
himself had fallen, and Marigold's inexplicable illness.

"Is the young lady yet fit to see anyone, do you
think?" asked the superintendent.  "Is she well
enough to make a statement?"

"Not to-day, I fear.  Perhaps she will be to-morrow."

His interrogator reflected for a few moments.

"When is that appointment due with Mr. Macdonald
and the Frenchman—Galtier is his name, isn't
it?" he asked his secretary, who was seated at a table
on the opposite side of the room.

"They are due here now," was the latter's reply
as he glanced at the clock.

"Mr. Emery is also to be here, is he not, Mr. Francis?"

"Yes, sir," replied the secretary.

Five minutes later there assembled in that room
five other persons.  Charles Emery was shown in
with the inquisitive little man, Alexander Macdonald,
who had arrived in Ardlui, and, giving his name as
John Greig, had watched the Red Widow by orders
from the detective office in Glasgow, and had gone
back down Loch Lomond only half convinced that
he was on the wrong track, and that she was not the
notorious woman, Sarah Slade, for whom he was in
search.

Alexander Macdonald was, however, a very
shrewd person, and when the first suspicion of a new
case was aroused against Ena Pollen, as she now
called herself, he saw that he had been sadly misled.
Therefore, unknown to Scotland Yard, the Glasgow
police had been doing underground work in order
to fix the identity of the lady of Upper Brook
Street.

Almost simultaneously with the arrival of the two
men there came Céline and Galtier, together with a
well-dressed elderly man, the manager of the
insurance company in which the false Mrs. Morrison had
taken out a policy.

For a full hour they sat with the superintendent
of the Criminal Investigation Department, who, with
a shorthand writer at his elbow, heard the further
statement of each in turn.  At last, turning to
Inspector Shaw, he said:

"There is certainly sufficient evidence to justify
the immediate arrest of the two women and the man
Boyne.  We must get the statements of Miss Ramsay
and her aunt later."

Then, taking a sheet of pale-yellow official paper,
he scribbled one or two lines, signed them, and
handed it to Shaw.

"I think that is all we can do at the moment," he
said, addressing the party.  "It is quite evident that
a great insurance conspiracy has been attempted, and
not for the first time.  Apparently the late
Mr. Martin was a victim, together with other persons,
whose names and circumstances we shall later on
discover.  To me it seems that great credit is due to the
intelligence of Miss Ramsay and of Mr. Durrant,
who watched the man Boyne so ingeniously until
they must have somehow betrayed themselves, and
thus have placed their lives in jeopardy."

"I think," said the Manchester solicitor, "that if
Mrs. Braybourne had pretended to remain in ignorance
for a month or so, and not sought to establish
her claim, the company would have, no doubt, paid
the sum without question."

"Yes," laughed the superintendent.  "But criminals
always betray themselves by overdue anxiety.
But we have here to deal with a very dangerous gang.
and it only shows to the insurance world how easily
they may be defrauded by a well-established
organisation."

Shaw had left the room, and already the telephone
was at work to ensure the arrest of the criminals.

"It will certainly be highly interesting to discover
how many innocent people have actually been the
victims of this desperate and relentless trio who dealt
secret death in order to enrich themselves," remarked
the superintendent.

"There was a grave suspicion of the woman
Pollen in another case about two years ago," said
Macdonald.  "Therefore, on a report from Ardlui,
I ran up from Glasgow, but I failed to identify her
as the woman who had called herself Slade, though
I had very strong suspicions.  Her social standing
deceived me, I admit.  Poor Mrs. Morrison of
Carsphairn!" exclaimed Macdonald in his strong Glasgow
accent.  "She was a good lady—a very good lady!"

"Well," said the superintendent, rising from his
chair.  "We have to thank you all for your combined
efforts, and especially Mademoiselle and Mr. Durrant.
Let's hope we shall get the guilty ones, and then we
shall all meet again as witnesses at the Old Bailey."

And thus, just after five o'clock, he dismissed
them, Gerald, excitedly and with all haste, making
his way back to the bedside of his loved one in order
to tell her the intentions of the police.

At last the devilish crimes of the Red Widow
and her accomplices were to be exposed, and the trio
of death-dealers punished.





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.. _`CONCLUSION`:

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   CONCLUSION

.. vspace:: 2

Scotland Yard is difficult to arouse, but when once
actual evidence of crime is forthcoming it is quick of
action.

At half-past five that afternoon a small, under-sized
man, who wore the uniform of the Metropolitan
Water Board, rang at the basement entrance of the
house in Pont Street, and the cook opened the door.
"Well, missus?" he exclaimed merrily.  "What's
the trouble with the water here—eh?"

"Trouble?  There's no trouble," replied the cook,
who never suspected that four other men were in
close vicinity awaiting their leader's call.

"Oh! but we've had a report that you've got a
bad leak in one of your pipes.  So I'll just have to
look at it," and he carried in what looked like a
walking-stick in wood with a wide trumpet end.

The cook took him into the scullery, and he placed
the end of his stick upon the pipe.  He listened
intently, using it like a huge stethoscope.  Then he
went from pipe to pipe, chatting merrily with the
cook and the man-servant all the time.

"Are your people at home?" he asked the cook.

"No.  They went away an hour ago in a car down
to Brighton for three weeks.  So we're all off for a
bit of a holiday, so hurry up!  Do you find anything
wrong, mister?"

"No," replied the shrewd little man.  "There must
be some mistake, I suppose.  There's no leak here,
as far as I can detect.  But what a time you will
have—eh?  Did they take much luggage?"

"No, not very much.  Madam said she would
come up and get some more on Tuesday."

"Went sudden-like—eh?"

"Yes.  All of a hurry.  Their friend, Mrs. Pollen,
slept here last night—which is a bit unusual.  But
my mistress had a 'phone message.  Then they rang
up for a car and all three went off.  They left their
address—the Metropole."

"Do you know where they got the car from?"

"No.  That I don't!  Why?  I heard Mrs. Pollen
ordering it on the 'phone.  But where it came from,
I don't know."

"You think that they're at the Metropole, at
Brighton?"

"Of course they are.  But are you going down
there to report a leak of water, mister?  If so, yours
must be a nice comfortable job."

The little man laughed mysteriously, and leaving,
walked to the corner of Pont Street, where he reported
to his colleagues that the birds had flown.

Inquiry at Upper Brook Street brought no better
result.  Mrs. Pollen had not been seen there since
the previous day.

Already news of the flight had been telephoned to
Scotland Yard, who, in turn, telephoned to the
Brighton police, and within ten minutes the
telegraph wires were at work to the various ports of
embarkation, circulating descriptions of the
trio—Boyne's description being furnished by the police at
Hammersmith, where he was so well known.

That night Gerald sat with Marigold, and both
were filled with wonder at what was happening.

Expert criminals of the type of the death-dealers
never fail to arrange for a safe bolt-hole in case
sudden escape becomes necessary.  The police knew
this well, and had already taken certain precautions
for their arrest.

The story, of what followed is a brief, but dramatic one.

The car hired to take them to Brighton conveyed
them only as far as Redhill, where they dismissed
it.  The Red Widow, having already alighted at
Sutton, in Surrey, and returning to Victoria by train,
claimed her two trunks.  Then, by the aid of her false
passport, and adding age and shabbiness to her
appearance, she managed to travel third-class from
Folkestone to Boulogne and, passed by the police
and passport officer there, went on to Paris, where
already she had a safe asylum awaiting her.

At Redhill Boyne and his wife halted at an hotel,
and after being inside for ten minutes the fugitives
came out, paid the man, gave him a handsome
douceur and said that they had changed their minds.
Thus dismissed the man returned to London well
satisfied.

The pair separated half an hour later, Boyne
returning as far as Clapham Junction, where he
changed and went on to Waterloo.  His idea was to
get away by Southampton that evening to the
Channel Islands, and thence, after a few days, across
to Havre.  He knew too well that the game was up
and that his only chance was to get abroad.

On arrival he went into the refreshment room
at Waterloo, for he had a full hour to wait for the
next train to Southampton.  Having leisurely drunk
a cup of tea, he was just about to emerge when three
men near the door dashed out and pounced upon him.

In an instant he fought like a tiger, but just as
quickly the men gripped him, though not a word was
spoken, except that a terrible imprecation escaped the
assassin's lips.

He was a master-criminal, and the detectives had
not gauged the extent of his wily cleverness.

"Very well," he laughed grimly at last.  "You
needn't hurt my arm.  Really, this is all extremely
annoying."

A crowd had at once assembled at the first sign
of a struggle, but the detectives hurried him
unceremoniously to a taxi, into which they bundled him.
Of that very act Bernard Boyne was swift to take
advantage, for ere they could prevent him he had
managed to slip his hand to his mouth and swallowed
something—so quickly, indeed, that the detectives
who sat with him could scarcely realise his action.

Then, as the taxi sped across Waterloo Bridge on
its way to Bow Street, Boyne, turning to his captors
with a gay laugh of defiance, said:

"Gentlemen, you have done your duty, but you've
bruised my arm very badly.  Yet I forgive you.
Bernard Boyne has had a long life and a merry one.
But"—he gasped, his face suddenly changed—"but
he cheats—he cheats you—after—after all!"

Next second their prisoner collapsed, and his
captors saw to their horror that he was dead.

Lilla, in ignorance of what had happened, spent
the night with a friend at Reigate, and went next day
to Victoria, where she presented the voucher and
obtained her luggage, which she took with her to
Liverpool, having succeeded in purchasing a
second-class passage to Canada in the name of Anna
Mansfield, the name upon her forged passport.

When, however, two days later she had boarded
the big liner and was sitting comfortably at tea within
an hour of sailing, she was politely invited by the
steward to step ashore again as a friend was awaiting
her.  She at once realised that she had been followed.
Two minutes later she was under arrest.  In the night
she was brought to London, and before the magistrate
at Bow Street next morning.

The suicide of Bernard Boyne prevented the whole
details of the amazing conspiracy from being
explained at Lilla's trial, which later on took place at
the Old Bailey.  She was, however, sent to penal
servitude for life as the accomplice of her husband—a
just sentence she is still serving.

Not until nearly three months afterwards was
anything heard of the Red Widow, until one night she
was arrested in Lyons, and on being brought to
Paris it was found by the Sûreté Générale that she
was wanted by them for a similar offence in Biarritz—the
mysterious death of a red-haired Englishman
named Pearson about three years previously—and
that she had, even then, been in active association
with Boyne and his wife.

She was brought before the Examining Magistrate,
M. Decoud, and her guilt proved.  Just before
the date of her trial at the Assize Court of the Seine
she followed the master-criminal's example by
poisoning herself with one of the same tiny pilules which
the insane toxicologist of Harpur Street had prepared
for emergency.  This little white pilule she had
succeeded in secreting in the hem of her skirt for nearly
four months, hoping to escape justice.  But at last,
being convinced of the terrible sentence which awaited
her, she ended her notorious career.

The demented scientist in Harpur Street, whom
Boyne had held so completely in his power, came to
the end of his resources in a month, and was certified
as insane and sent to an asylum.  He made wild
allegations against a person named Wisden, but they
were always unintelligible to the attendants.

The insurance company which had issued the
policy on the life of the unfortunate Mrs. Morrison,
combined with three other companies which had also
been defrauded, awarded to Gerald Durrant and
Marigold Ramsay the very substantial sum of one
thousand pounds each for their services in breaking
up the dangerous and unscrupulous gang, for had the
truth not been discovered they would in all
probability be carrying on their murderous work at the
present moment.

The reward which the young people received went
a long way towards buying the pretty little home they
occupy at Hampstead, for they are now united as
man and wife.

Gerald is back again at Mincing Lane, where he
has been promoted to a responsible and lucrative
position as assistant manager, but Marigold, of
course, no longer goes daily to the City.

They are never tired of talking of those dark
days of their danger and distress, but there is one
person to whom they have agreed never to refer—that
handsome woman of many crimes both known
and unknown—the Red Widow.

.. vspace:: 3

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"Mr. Le Queux has brought the art of the sensational
novel to high perfection."—*Northern Whig*.

"Mr. Le Queux is so true to his own style that any one
familiar with his books would certainly guess him to be
the author, even if his name were not given."—*Methodist
Recorder*.

"'As good wine needs no bush' so no mystery story by
Mr. Le Queux, the popular weaver of tales of crime, needs
praise for its skill.  Any novel with this author's name
appended is sure to be ingenious in design and cleverly
worked out."—*Bookseller*.

"Mr. Le Queux is always reliable.  The reader who picks
up any of his latest novels knows what to expect."—*Bookman*.

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