man. "Ever since that night at Hammersmith I've been trying in vain to
solve the mystery."
"About the person concealed upstairs," remarked the blue-eyed girl
reflectively. "Yes, it's most curious."
"It's more than curious," her companion declared. "Though I haven't
mentioned it to you, I've watched the house for several nights, but I
must admit that I've seen nothing at all suspicious."
"Oh! Then you've been on the watch!" she cried excitedly.
"Yes, on four occasions, and all to no purpose. Last Friday I waited
from nine o'clock till one in the morning, and got wet through. He
returned about ten, but did not come out again."
"He was upstairs with his secret friend, I suppose," said the girl.
"No doubt. Whoever may be confined there could not exist without seeing
a human face and conversing with him, even for five minutes each day, or
he would certainly go mad," said Gerald. "You remember I said that
Italians, who have abolished capital punishment for murder, have
substituted solitary confinement. It is far more terrible. They
confine the assassin in a cell in silence, without sight of a human
face. Their food is placed upon a turntable which revolves into the
cell, so that the prisoner never sees a face. Such torture was invented
long ago in the Bastille, and in every case it drives the guilty one
raving mad within five years."
"How horrible!" cried the girl.
"I admit it is, but surely the punishment is far greater than that of
hanging, or even the guillotine. Both are instantaneous, yet in Italy
the criminal suffers all the tortures of Dante's Inferno--and deservedly
so."
"Then you saw nothing?" asked Marigold.
"I fancied a lot, but I saw really nothing to increase my suspicions.
One thing we know--that he is concealing some person in that locked
room. Now who can the person be?"
"It may be some relative who has done something very wrong and is afraid
of the police," suggested the girl.
"Agreed. It may be. But we have discussed the matter so many times
that I think we should not talk further--but act," he said. "We have
proved beyond doubt that Bernard Boyne is a man of mystery. Your deaf
aunt, a most worthy woman, acts as his housekeeper. Why does he retain
her? Merely because she is stone-deaf. Why does he want a deaf woman to
wait upon him? Because there are sometimes noises in the house which
would arouse the curiosity of any who chanced to overhear them."
"We must discover the identity of the person concealed," remarked the
girl with the big blue eyes, as she lay back lazily among the cushions.
"We must. At all costs I intend to solve this mystery. Marigold," he
said, removing his pipe from his lips and looking straight into her
eyes, "my own belief is that you have discovered some very strange and
startling drama of our complex London life--one which, when
investigated, will prove to be astounding."
"Do you really think so?" asked the girl, looking into his handsome
face.
"Yes--I do. Up to the present all our efforts have been in vain," he
said. "Only one fact has been established, and that is that there is a
prisoner--whether voluntary or not we cannot tell--in that
creeper-covered house. We both saw Boyne creep up with food to him,
while I saw his light beneath the door. Somebody is living up there in
secret. Is it a man, or is it a woman? His eagerness makes me think
that it is a woman. Who is it?"
"Somebody he is shielding--somebody who has committed some serious
crime, who fears to show his or her face lest it be recognised by agents
of Scotland Yard."
"Really, Marigold, you are very acute," he exclaimed. "We have had so
many murder mysteries since the war, and in all of them the police
confess their utter confusion, that the present situation fills me with
great apprehension."
"I know," she said. "But why not let us begin again? Let us watch the
house. I'll watch one night, and you watch the next. Surely we can by
that means discover the truth. If the place is watched every night,
this man Boyne must, in the end, be defeated."
"But I thought you liked Boyne?"
"Yes; he has been always very good to me. Remember that he is the owner
of the place, and my aunt is his housekeeper," replied the girl.
"I quite appreciate your point," said Durrant. "But if we are to fully
delve into the affair we must not be influenced by the fellow's open
heart. The greatest criminals of the world have always been those who
have been popular on account of their bonhomie and generosity."
The girl sat silent, her eyes fixed upon the rushes slowly waving in the
stream. A motor-launch passed them, making a high wash against the
bank, but she took no heed. She was still thinking of that strange
occupant of the house in Bridge Place.
Three times during the past week she had, indeed, visited her aunt in an
endeavour to discover something more. Boyne had been out, as usual,
therefore she had been able to examine the place thoroughly. She had
ascended to that locked room on each occasion, and had listened there.
Once in the silence she had heard a distinct movement, a slight
rustling, within.
Yet afterwards, as she had reflected, she wondered whether it had not
been due to her imagination, or perhaps to a blind flapping at an open
window. When one is suspicious, it is so easy to imagine queer
circumstances.
"I only wish we could solve the mystery," she remarked wistfully. "It
worries me. Auntie seems quite unconcerned."
"Because she has no suspicion, worthy old soul. She has no knowledge of
Mr. Boyne's nocturnal visits with food to his friend."
"Why shouldn't we tell her, and then she'll be on the alert?" suggested
the girl. "She might discover something."
"She might--but more probably she would be too eager, and thus put Boyne
upon his guard," remarked the young fellow. "No. We must work together
in strict secrecy if we intend to be successful."
"But who can he possibly be hiding?"
The young man in flannels shrugged his shoulders, and replied:
"I confess that the problem is getting on my nerves. The more I think
it over the more inscrutable it becomes. Mischief is being worked
somewhere. Of that I feel confident. All the actions of our friend
Boyne point to it."
"But that shroud? Why does he wear it?" asked Marigold blankly.
"As a disguise, without a doubt. Perhaps the person upstairs has been
confined there so long that his mind has already become deranged, as is
inevitable after a long period of solitary incarceration, and Boyne now
takes the precaution of adopting the simple disguise so that his friend
should fail to identify him. He may have done his captive some great
injury--or something."
"True; but, if he has, it was not in order to gain. Bernard Boyne is a
comparatively poor man. My aunt says that he seems to have only just
sufficient money to make both ends meet."
Gerald Durrant drew a long breath. Upon his countenance was an
expression of doubt.
"He may pass as a poor man, and yet be rich," he remarked. "It may
sound romantic, but there are many people living in the by-streets of
London, successfully concealed beneath assumed names and unsuspected by
their neighbours, who for years have lived a life of penury though they
are really well off. And their motive is, for some reason or other, to
cut themselves adrift from friends in their own sphere. Indeed, it is a
well known fact that in the last days of King Edward an ex-Cabinet
Minister lived for several years in seclusion in a meagre side-street
near Kennington Park, as Mr. Benwell, his real identity never being
suspected until, owing to his sudden death, an inquest was held, and the
police, searching his papers, discovered that he was immensely wealthy
and one of Britain's foremost statesmen, who was believed to be living
in seclusion in Italy."
"Perhaps Mr. Boyne is some person who has sought retirement in a similar
manner," Marigold suggested.
"No. If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Boyne is playing a very deep and rather
dangerous game--how dangerous I cannot yet discover."
"But you could discover nothing when you watched--just as I failed to
find out any fact," she said. "I had no idea you were on the watch."
"I saw you on Tuesday night," he laughed. "You arrived at the house
about half-past eight, and had a great trouble getting in."
"Were you there?" she cried eagerly. "I never dreamed that you were in
the vicinity. Yes, you are right. I rang and banged on the door half a
dozen times before I could attract auntie's attention. She generally
leaves the door unlocked in case anyone should call."
"Boyne returned about twenty minutes after you had left, but though I
watched till midnight, he did not come out again."
"Couldn't you take a day off one day and follow him when he goes out in
the morning?" the girl suggested. "I would do it, but I fear that he'd
recognise me."
"I might. But I think I may be more successful at night. It is very
difficult to keep observation upon a person in broad daylight. In the
darkness it is much easier."
"Why not try again to-night?" suggested Marigold. "I'll go with you."
He shook his head.
"Sunday night is a bad night. We know his habits on week-days, but he
may have gone out all day to-day," he replied. "No; to-morrow would be
more likely."
"Then let's both go there to-morrow night, and if he comes out of the
house we'll watch where he goes."
With this suggestion Gerald agreed, and after she had smoked the
cigarette he handed to her from his case, they resumed their punting
up-stream in the afternoon sunshine.
Next night they met by appointment at Hammersmith Broadway station at
half-past eight, and after a consultation, it was arranged that Marigold
should call on her aunt on some pretext, and having ascertained if Boyne
had returned, she would rejoin Gerald at a spot in King Street.
Hence he lounged about the busy thoroughfare for a quarter of an hour
until she returned with the news that Boyne had been home since six
o'clock, he having returned unusually early.
"Ah! That's a good sign," said Gerald. "He'll certainly go out again
to-night!"
As they strolled together they arranged that Marigold should loiter near
the King Street end of the street, while Gerald should stand in an entry
near the house which he had used in his previous observations.
"If you see me pass into King Street, don't follow me too closely," he
urged, "and at all hazards don't let him see you. Remember that people
who are engaged in crooked business keep their eyes skinned and are
always full of suspicion."
"I'll take good care he doesn't see me," the girl answered him. "Trust
me to be discreet."
Then they parted, and for about an hour Marigold waited in vain for a
sight of her lover. It had now grown quite dark, and the street lamps
in Bridge Place were none too brilliant. She was still loitering in the
darkness, full of expectation at every footstep on the pavement.
At last she again heard footsteps, and a few moments later recognised
Boyne's well-built figure passing within the zone of lamplight across
the way. He was walking hurriedly in the direction of King Street, all
unconscious that he was being followed. But a few moments later, with
noiseless tread--for he wore rubber heels to his shoes--Durrant came
along, his eyes searching eagerly for the girl he loved.
Suddenly he saw her in the shadow, and realised that she was discreetly
following him.
The pair exchanged a few words in the crowded King Street, and while
Gerald hurried on after Boyne towards the station, the girl followed a
little distance behind.
They saw him buying a ticket at the station and also purchase a late
edition of the evening paper. Then he descended to the platform of the
tube and took a train going towards Piccadilly.
Gerald and Marigold, who had separated, travelled on the same train
until, on arrival at Knightsbridge, the man they were watching alighted.
Marigold, who had been on the alert at each station, saw him emerge from
the next car, while close behind him was Gerald, with whom, of course,
he was unacquainted.
Together they followed him along Sloane Street to Pont Street, where he
ascended the steps of a smart-looking red-brick house and opened the
door with a latchkey.
"Now that's curious!" remarked Gerald when he rejoined the girl. "Did
you notice that he entered that house yonder as though it were his own
home? I wonder who lives there?"
"We must find out," declared Marigold, highly excited at having tracked
Mr. Boyne so far.
"Yes. But I shall be compelled to watch the house and see what happens
now," he said. "I mean to follow him to-night wherever he goes. It
almost seems as if he lives here--as well as in Hammersmith!"
"Well--he certainly has a latchkey, and this is not a street where they
take in lodgers."
"No," he said. "Some of these houses are the legations of the smaller
States of Europe. Over there is the Serbian Legation."
"Well, we'll wait in patience," she said. "Fortunately it's a fine
night."
"The last time I watched, last week, it came on terribly wet about
eleven o'clock," he said, "and I hadn't my mackintosh. When I started
out it seemed a perfect night. But just now the weather is so
changeable."
On the darker side of the street by the railings, the young people idled
together, with a watchful eye upon the long flight of steps which Boyne
had ascended. Though the blinds were drawn, it was evident that the
comfortable West End house was well lighted, and it was, no doubt, the
residence of someone of considerable means. Indeed, it requires a good
income to run a house even in Pont Street in these post-bellum days.
The traffic had died down. Few taxis were passing, for as yet the
home-coming pleasure seekers were not on their way from the theatres.
For half an hour the pair waited in the shadow, full of eager curiosity.
The movements of the mystery-man of Hammersmith were, to say the least,
suspicious.
Suddenly, from the basement a young footman appeared, and hurrying along
to the end of the road, hailed a taxi and brought it to the door.
Then, as they watched, they saw, a few seconds later, the front door
open, and a man in evening dress descended the steps and entered the
taxi.
The light from the open door shone upon his face as he halted to speak
to the servant, and then, to their amazement, they recognised the man to
be Bernard Boyne.
His chameleon-like change staggered them both for a second, but Gerald,
ever quick to act, whispered:
"Go home, Marigold. This is very funny. I'll try to follow," and a
moment later he had sped away noiselessly into the darkness.
The fact was that his quick eyes had espied a taxi which at that moment
had driven up on a stand a little farther down, and without delay he
told the man that he wanted him to follow the taxi in front, and that he
would give him treble fare for doing so.
"Right y'are, sir!" replied the young Cockney driver, who instantly
entered into the spirit of the chase, and already his cab was on the
move as Boyne left.
Gerald saw Marigold standing watching the departure, and knowing that
she would make the best of her way to Wimbledon, kept his eyes upon the
taxi, which was soon out into Knightsbridge, going in the direction of
Hyde Park Corner.
Why Boyne, the humble collector of insurance premiums, should possess a
latchkey to a house in Pont Street, and emerge from there dressed in
evening clothes as a gentleman of means, sorely puzzled Gerald Durrant.
He felt instinctively that he was on the track of some very remarkable
sequence of events. This man who disguised himself every night before
he took food and drink up to his imprisoned friend, evidently lived a
double life. In Pont Street he was a rich man, while in Hammersmith he
was poor.
One point of satisfaction was that he was following the unsuspecting
man, and would at least know his destination, even if that night he
failed to discover the object of his visit.
That he was in a hurry was apparent. He seemed to have spoken excitedly
to the young footman--who appeared to be a foreigner--before stepping
into the taxi.
Up Park Lane they went, until suddenly the taxi conveying the man of
mystery pulled up before a house in Upper Brook Street, while the
vehicle in which Gerald had followed passed on for some distance before
it stopped.
"'E's gone in that 'ouse, sir," said the taxi-man in a low voice.
"Yes, so I see. He may not be long. I'll wait," and he stepped out and
strolled a little way in the opposite direction. Meanwhile Boyne had
paid his man, who had turned his cab and left.
The house into which Boyne had disappeared was a block of flats, for as
he passed he had caught a glimpse of the uniformed porter who had
saluted him and followed him to the lift.
The mystery was thereby greatly increased, though many more startling
circumstances were yet to be encountered.
Gerald Durrant idled there in the vicinity of the taxi, little dreaming
into what a labyrinth of doubt and mystery he had now been drawn.
*CHAPTER XI*
*SPREADING THE NET*
Gerald Durrant remained outside the house in Upper Brook Street for more
than half an hour. Much puzzled, he stood in a doorway opposite the
block of flats into which Boyne had gone.
Marigold was on her way back to Wimbledon Park, and that night he
intended to probe the mystery farther.
He waited, and still waited. A neighbouring clock struck the hours.
The hall-porter at one o'clock closed the door and switched off the
lights, yet Gerald still waited for the insurance agent of Hammersmith
to emerge.
That he was known to the hall-porter was apparent, for the man had
saluted him. It was strange, to say the least, that the man who was
compelled to scrape for a living in Hammersmith should be guest in a
fashionable flat in Upper Brook Street.
Bernard Boyne was certainly a man of mystery, for not only did he
possess the latchkey of the smart house in Pont Street, but he was also
known at that block of expensive flats.
The young fellow lit a fresh cigarette and, leaning against the deep
portico of the house opposite, possessed himself in patience. Time went
on. A police constable passed and repassed, but did not notice him in
the shadow, for he hid his cigarette. All the windows of the great
building he was watching were in darkness. It was evident now that
Boyne would not come out again before morning.
Yet Durrant, with great pertinacity, waited there through the whole
night until, at half-past six, the hall-porter threw open the outer
door, and milkmen, the postman, and newspaper boys began to arrive in
quick succession. Without bite or sup Gerald waited there till
half-past ten, when, full of chagrin at being thus foiled, he was
compelled to hurry to his office, getting a wash and a shave on the way.
At lunch he met Marigold as usual, and told her of his failure,
whereupon she said:
"I have the afternoon off. I'll go at once and see my aunt, and
ascertain when he got back."
This she did, and when that evening Durrant arrived home at Ealing he
found a wire awaiting him which told him that when Boyne's housekeeper
took him up his early tea as usual, her master had been in bed!
Durrant held his breath. The mystery-man had some means of exit from
Upper Brook Street--a back way, without a doubt.
But what was the motive of it all? Why should he pose as penurious in
Hammersmith, and wear evening clothes in Mayfair?
That night Durrant went again to Upper Brook Street, and, exploring the
rear of the building, found that there was a servants' entrance to the
flats which led into a mews, and through a back street. By that Bernard
Boyne had, no doubt, walked out while Durrant had been keeping his night
vigil.
This fact further impressed both Marigold and her lover that Boyne was
not what he represented himself to be.
Durrant set out to probe the mystery, and by dint of ingenious
application to the affair, he became on friendly terms with the
hall-porter. Truth to tell, Durrant had represented himself to be a
demobilised officer who had been in love with a lady who had rented one
of the flats. He had discovered her name from the house-agent, and knew
that she had married during the war.
From the hall-porter he learned that the man who had passed in was an
occasional visitor, but to whom he did not know. He would try and
ascertain. The lips of all hall-porters of flats are readily unlocked
when their hands are "crossed with silver." And why not? In our
post-war civilisation little is effected without a _quid pro quo_. Even
the British Cabinet Minister looks for reward; alas! that it should be
so. Patriotism in all the Allied Countries seems synonymous with
personal ruin, and those who have realised the fact are the profiteers
upon gallant men's lives.
Gerald's discovery at the back of Upper Brook Street brought the pair to
a dead end as far as their investigations went.
They met as usual at lunch and discussed the situation. What could be
done?
"All I can see, Marigold, is for you to continue your visits constantly
to Bridge Place and learn all you can from your aunt," Durrant said.
"There is evidently something extraordinary in progress. But what it is
we cannot possibly tell without more thorough investigation."
"But what can we do further?" asked the girl.
"I can do nothing just yet, except to receive reports from you," replied
Gerald. "You can visit Boyne's house and let me know from time to time
what is in progress there."
"But the prisoner upstairs?" she asked. "How can I know more?"
"By watching," was his reply. "Do you know, Marigold, I've been
thinking--thinking deeply over the affair. We are both agreed that we
intend to fathom the secret of this man. Well, now could you not one
evening, when you visit your aunt, be taken suddenly very unwell, and
then remain there in the house and watch?"
"Really, Gerald, that's a splendid idea!" exclaimed the girl. "Yet it
seems an imposition upon Mr. Boyne."
"I know that. He poses as a man without anything whatever save the
commission he collects upon the premiums on the lives of the honest
inhabitants of Hammersmith. Yet, as we know, he is in touch with
certain people of a much higher class than himself. The house in Pont
Street is a great enigma to me. We must elucidate the mystery. That is
my object."
"I am ready to work at your orders, Gerald," was the girl's reply, with
the genuine love-look in her eyes. "Yes, we will do our utmost to solve
this mystery!"
In consequence of this conversation, a few days later Marigold went one
afternoon to visit her aunt, old Mrs. Felmore, and in the evening was
taken very unwell.
Mr. Boyne, who returned as usual about six o'clock, was told of the
girl's illness and went down to the kitchen, where he saw her, and,
speaking kindly, asked if he should fetch the doctor.
"No, thank you, Mr. Boyne," the girl answered, rather weakly. "It's
awfully good of you, but no doubt I shall be better presently, and able
to go home. I have a curious dizziness. It came on quite suddenly."
"Are you subject to it?" he inquired. And then in the next breath asked
if he could get her anything.
"My aunt has given me a cup of tea," was her reply. "And I already feel
better."
"Don't think of going to Wimbledon to-night unless you feel better," he
urged. "Mrs. Felmore can make you up a bed in the spare room."
She thanked him, and though she assured him she would be well enough to
go home in an hour or so, she had no intention of returning home that
night.
Boyne, on his part, looked weary and worn. His clothes were shabby, and
his cheap boots were down at heel and dusty after a long day's tramp in
the meaner streets of Hammersmith.
Returning to his sitting-room, he took his bulky insurance books from
his pocket. Then he threw off his jacket, sat down to tea in his shirt
sleeves, and fed "Nibby," his pet rat.
Mrs. Felmore, like many deaf folk, could tell what was said by watching
people's lips. When her employer had left the kitchen, she remarked to
her niece:
"Isn't Mr. Boyne a dear nice man? Whenever I feel unwell he is always
so ready to get me anything. You know how bad I was with my rheumatism
last winter? He wouldn't let me work, but engaged old Mrs. Kirk from
the Mall."
"Yes, auntie, he is," Marigold declared. "But I didn't tell him how bad
I feel. I really don't know what has come over me."
"Why not let him call the doctor?"