CHAPTER XXIIITHE CRY IN THE NIGHTMarigold, 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 isnotmissing," 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!CHAPTER XXIVHARD PRESSEDWhen 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 foryou!" 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 yourménageat 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.CHAPTER XXVTHE RECLUSEThe 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.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE CRY IN THE NIGHT
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 isnotmissing," 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!
CHAPTER XXIV
HARD PRESSED
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 foryou!" 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 yourménageat 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.
CHAPTER XXV
THE RECLUSE
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.