obtained leave of absence for the afternoon from their respective
principals, and after lunching together as usual, went on the top of an
omnibus to Kew, where they walked for an hour in the celebrated gardens.
Then they went to Hammersmith to take tea with Mrs. Felmore. The deaf
old woman welcomed them warmly, and they sat together in the kitchen,
though Gerald could not talk with Marigold's aunt.
The girl, who could speak with her aunt with ease, put to her several
questions concerning Mr. Boyne's movements, but learned nothing unusual.
She feared to tell the old woman of that uncanny disguise which he
adopted when he visited that locked room upstairs, or of that weird, but
certainly human cry which she had heard above.
Personally, Gerald suspected the cry to be the result of her vivid
imagination. The theory that somebody was imprisoned in that upstairs
room was fantastic, but highly improbable, therefore he had dismissed
it. Yet presently the old woman made one remark which struck him as
curious. In the course of conversation Mrs. Felmore said:
"Poor Mr. Boyne! He does all the good in the world that he can. Only
yesterday I found hidden in one of the cupboards in his bedroom a whole
lot of tinned stuff--tongues, fruit, jam, biscuits--a host of things
that he's got up there on the quiet. I asked him what he was hoarding
them up for, and he said that he was sending a big parcel of groceries
to a poor widow he knew at Notting Hill Gate."
"Curious to have a store of tinned stuff in his bedroom!" remarked
Gerald, at once recollecting the suggestion that somebody might be in
hiding upstairs.
"Yes, sir," replied the old woman. "But Mr. Boyne is very eccentric
sometimes--very eccentric!"
"In what way?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh! he gets up in the middle of the night and goes up and down
stairs--I often see the light under my bedroom door."
Marigold and her lover exchanged glances.
"I wonder what he does?" asked the girl.
"Ah! That I can't say," was the old housekeeper's response. "I asked
him one day not long ago, and he simply told me he had woke up, and as
he couldn't go to sleep again, he went down to do his accounts."
"Well, this store of food shows him to be of a philanthropic turn of
mind," remarked Gerald, with a smile. And then, disregarding the fact
that Boyne might return at any moment, he succeeded in getting Mrs.
Felmore's permission to slip upstairs and view the collection of
preserved foods which was going to the poor widow.
Marigold quickly found it stored in the bottom of a cupboard, covered by
an old overcoat and some worn-out shirts, which had apparently been
flung in at haphazard.
Gerald's quick glance saw something which further aroused his
curiosity--a small brand-new tin tea-kettle and a little enamelled
basin. With them was a new roll of absorbent cotton-wool and a quart
bottle of cheap port wine, which from its label had been purchased of a
local grocer.
"Funny that he should send her a tea-kettle and basin!" remarked
Durrant, as he handled them. "And look! What's this?" And he took out
a small wooden box about three inches square, such as is used by
jewellers to send watches by post. He opened it and within, carefully
packed in cotton wool, was a small lens surrounded by a threaded brass
ring evidently a portion of some optical instrument.
"Part of a telescope!" the girl exclaimed. "Surely a widow would not
require that--however poor she might be!"
"Yes, dear," said her lover, holding the box in his hand and reflecting.
"This is a curious hoard, and I am wondering if it is intended for the
unknown person who is living in seclusion above."
"Well, Mr. Boyne's explanation to auntie is quite clever, if what you
suggest is the solution of the mystery."
"But is not Boyne always clever?" he asked. "That he is leading a double
life we have already established. It is now for us to solve the problem
of the reason of this locked room upstairs."
"Then you think this has been bought in order to feed somebody who is
living up above in silence and seclusion?" she asked.
"It seems like it. But if we watch carefully and see in which direction
it disappears, whether inside this house or outside, then we shall begin
to penetrate the mystery."
"But how shall we do it?"
"This requires very careful consideration, dear," was his reply. "My
own feeling is that you should by some means or other endeavour to spend
the next few days here with your aunt, so that you can keep daily watch
upon this strange collection of provisions. But we mustn't remain here,
for Boyne may return at any moment."
So they descended the stairs to the kitchen, and hardly had they reached
it when the heavy tread of the man of mystery was heard in the hall
above.
While Mrs. Felmore was upstairs interviewing her employer as to what he
required for tea, the lovers held hurried consultation.
When the old woman returned, Gerald rose and motioned to her that he
intended to go as perhaps Mr. Boyne would not like to discover him
there. He placed his finger upon his lips, shook hands with the deaf
housekeeper, and stole out and up the area steps, keeping well out of
sight of Boyne's window.
"Mr. Durrant was in a hurry, eh?" asked the old woman.
"Yes, auntie. He was afraid that Mr. Boyne might not like him calling
here, so he's gone. But I'm here, and--well, to tell you the truth,
auntie, I don't exactly know what to do!"
"Do--why?" asked the old woman, her eyes starting as was her habit when
surprised.
"I'm at a loose end, auntie. They want my room over at Wimbledon--but
only for a week. Hetty and Jack have come home from their music-hall
engagement in Paris, and they've asked me to give up my room for a week.
So I've no place to sleep. I've been wondering if Mr. Boyne would mind
me coming here. Do you think he'd object?"
"No, I'm sure he wouldn't mind, dear!" she declared. "I'll ask him
now--when I go up. He's often inquiring after you."
So when she took up her master's tea a quarter of an hour later, she
said:
"Marigold's downstairs, sir. She's in a bit of trouble, sir."
"Trouble! Why?" asked Boyne sharply. "What's the matter? Has she left
the bank?"
"Oh, no, sir. It's only because she's turned out of her room at
Wimbledon for a week for her brother-in-law and his wife, so she wants
to come here and stay with me. Would you have any objection?"
"Of course not, Mrs. Felmore. Tell her to come up and see me now."
Then, when the old woman had gone, his genial attitude instantly
changed.
"So the girl wants to come here--does she? Yes, she shall come. Oh,
yes!" he growled grimly. "She and that fellow are playing a very pretty
game. But I shall win, never fear!"
A moment later Marigold entered the room, saying:
"It's awfully good of you, Mr. Boyne, to put me up again! I fear I'm a
terrible nuisance, but I was in such a difficulty that I came to auntie,
and asked her if she knew of anyone who could give me a room. She then
said that she thought you might allow me to stay here."
"My dear Miss Marigold," he said quite genially, "you are welcome to
stay with your aunt. I've told you so over and over again, haven't I?
How are you getting on at the bank?"
"Oh, quite well, thanks! It is rather monotonous--figures always--but
still it's better than at that motor dealer's where I was before.
People who deal in motor cars have no conscience, and are, I believe,
the biggest liars on earth."
Boyne laughed. He had an appreciation for the smart young lady clerk,
whose quick wit and ready repartee always appealed to him. But two days
before he had made a discovery which had aroused his suspicions.
It was, however, arranged that Marigold should occupy the same room
which she had had when taken suddenly ill a short time before, and Boyne
added:
"Just do as you like, my girl. I have a great regard for your aunt, as
you know, and you are quite welcome here, I assure you."
The girl, believing that he was unsuspicious, thanked him and, leaving
the room, descended to the kitchen, where she told her aunt all that had
transpired.
Personally she liked Mr. Boyne. It was only the discovery of that weird
disguise of his that had aroused her curiosity, which, indeed, was but
natural.
She left the house half an hour later and travelled to Wimbledon Park,
returning with her leather blouse case containing a few necessaries.
Eight o'clock had struck ere she arrived at Bridge Place. At the corner
of the street Gerald confronted her. He had kept watchful vigil upon
the house to see whether Boyne had brought out any parcel for the poor
widow. But the man of mystery had not come forth.
She told her lover with enthusiasm how Boyne had invited her to stay
there, and promised to keep a watchful eye upon things.
"Excellent, dear," Gerald declared. "You go in, and I'll still remain
here, and follow him if he goes out to spend the evening."
"Be careful that he doesn't notice you," she urged. "He has awfully
quick eyesight."
"I know that. He very nearly spotted me the other day. In fact, I was
afraid that he had."
"I see you've got a cap on," she laughed. "Where is your hat?"
"I've left it in a shop in the Broadway to be renovated and ironed, and
I bought this cap to wear meanwhile. Does it make any difference?"
"Certainly it does. And you've got a new jacket, too."
"The same. I bought it at a reach-me-down shop in King Street an hour
ago, and left my own there. Does it fit?"
"Not very well around the collar, but nobody would really notice it,"
she declared.
Gerald Durrant was both shrewd and determined. When he set his mind upon
a thing, he carried it through at all costs. He intended to penetrate
the veil of mystery which enveloped this good go-to-meeting collector of
insurance premiums.
"Well," he said at last. "Be watchful, and be careful, dear, that you
don't arouse his suspicion. He's a mystery, and all men of his calibre
are ultra-suspicious, and masters in the art of concealing their own
feelings."
"Don't fear, Gerry," she laughed. "I shall be as clever as he is. You
do your watching outside, and I'll do mine within. I shall probably
telegraph to Mr. Kenyon to-morrow and make excuse that I'm ill. Then I
shall have a day in the house to examine things a little more closely."
"That's a good idea! Watch those things in his bedroom--that tea-kettle
and the other things. Find out when they go--and where," were his
parting injunctions.
Five minutes later Marigold went down the area steps into the kitchen,
where her aunt was cooking Mr. Boyne's succulent steak.
"He says he's very hungry to-day--hasn't had any lunch, so I went out
and got him this!" exclaimed the old woman. "If he eats it all, then he
ought to do well, eh?" she remarked, in her somewhat high-pitched and
rasping voice.
"Yes. I suppose he'll go out afterwards," said Marigold.
"He said he'd got to go out at nine--to a meeting somewhere," was her
aunt's reply. Therefore her niece took from her bag a postcard,
scribbled something upon it, and in pretence of going to the post she
went out to Gerald and told him what she had learned.
This afforded Durrant time to go along to the "Clarendon" for dinner and
a rest before resuming his patient observations.
On her return, Marigold put on an apron and helped her aunt. Indeed,
she carried up the tray into Mr. Boyne's room.
"Ah! I see I've got a new parlour-maid, eh?" he laughed merrily. "And
an unusually smart one, too!"
Marigold laughed, and set the table, saying:
"Well, I thought I'd just give auntie a hand, Mr. Boyne. Half an hour
ago she complained that her leg hurt, because of the stairs, so I
thought I'd help her."
"Very good of you," he said, lounging in the frayed old arm-chair in his
shirt-sleeves, a different figure indeed from that he so often presented
at night in the West End. There, in the smart restaurants and in
theatres, he wore his evening suit and nodded acquaintance with many
well-known people, who little suspected his obscure abode.
Marigold waited upon him as though she were a waitress instead of a
ledger clerk, but he was reading the evening paper as he ate his meal,
and spoke but little more.
"Yes, you're a pretty miss, you are!" he growled to himself after she
had left the room. "If you don't mind you'll be very sorry that you
entered my house."
At a quarter to nine, having washed and changed into a rather seedy suit
of blue serge, he went out. Marigold heard him bang the door, and knew
that Gerald was on the alert outside.
The evening passed quietly until at ten Mrs. Felmore went to bed, and
her niece also retired. She bade her aunt good-night, went into the
spare room and closed the door.
She shook out her thin summer dressing-gown, and placed it upon the rail
of the narrow bed. Then she reopened the door and stood listening on
the stairs, her ears strained to catch any noise from the locked room on
the next landing of the frowsy old house.
No sound reached her ears, save the noise her aunt made moving about in
her room. Downstairs the cheap old clock in Boyne's sitting-room ticked
loudly and suddenly struck the half-hour. Beyond that all was silent.
Marigold, after a long vigil, at last turned off the gas and, throwing
herself on the bed, dressed as she was, soon fell asleep.
Meanwhile Boyne re-entered the house noiselessly and, taking off his
shoes, crept in silence up the stairs to her door. He listened, and
could hear by her deep, regular breathing that she was asleep.
Slowly he turned the handle of the door--which he had purposely oiled
before going out--and, flashing a pocket-torch to the ceiling, saw her
lying there, still dressed!
Without a sound he withdrew and crept back down the stairs.
"I thought so, young lady!" he muttered to himself, when he was back in
his sitting-room. "You don't know much--neither does your young man!
But I must take steps for my own protection, that I can see!"
He stood with his back to the fireplace, his eyes staring at the
sideboard in front of him for some moments. Nibby was scuttling about
in the cupboard, so he let him out and the little rodent sniffed his
hand.
"I wonder what makes the girl so inquisitive?" he thought. "Surely the
old woman knows nothing! If she does, then she would, of course, confide
in her niece, who, in turn, would tell this young fellow Durrant."
The lovers were unaware that Boyne had been making the most careful
inquiries concerning both of them, for the instant he realised that he
was being watched, he had laid certain diabolical plans by which to
triumph.
"It's their lives--_or mine_!" he whispered to himself, with a strange
hard look in his eyes. "I can't afford to be watched by such
inquisitive folk. I was a fool not to take Lilla's advice concerning
this girl."
He walked across to the sideboard and poured himself out a liqueur-glass
full of brandy, which he tossed off at a single gulp.
"I'll test her and see what happens," he said aloud, with a chuckle.
Then, slipping on his shoes and going to the front door, he opened it,
and, having banged it, walked heavily back along the passage to the
room.
The noise awakened Marigold, who, all unconscious that Boyne had seen
her there, instantly jumped up and listened.
She heard footsteps on the stairs and saw a passing light beneath her
door.
She heard him ascend the next flight of stairs towards the locked room,
and then carefully opening her door, peered out after him.
Suddenly he turned and descended, as though he had forgotten something,
but his quick eye, as he flashed his lamp upon her door, detected that
it was noiselessly closing.
In pretence of ignorance he passed down to his own room, and entering
it, closed the door heavily.
"Yes," he whispered to himself. "Ah! I was not mistaken! The girl is
here in my house to spy upon me! She's dangerous--just as dangerous as
the man. And in my game I allow no enemies to confront me!"
Then, laughing grimly, he clenched his bony fists and set his teeth.
Afterwards he retired to bed, leaving the girl listening attentively to
noises he purposely made.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*BAITING THE TRAP*
Next day Boyne remained in the house until Marigold had left to go to
the City--for she was anxious to report the result of her vigil to her
lover and then, instead of going out upon his daily collection of
insurance premiums, he went to Pont Street.
He arrived at the fine red-brick house about eleven, opening the door
with his latchkey. He found his wife in her bedroom, and closing the
door, he exclaimed in an unusually excited voice:
"Lilla! there's trouble brewing--_very serious trouble_!"
"In what direction?" gasped the handsome woman, starting from the long
mirror before which she was arranging her blouse.
"That girl Marigold--the old woman Felmore's niece--is suspicious, and
she has established herself in my house in order to watch me!"
"Why is she suspicious?"
"I don't know. That's the mystery of it. How much she knows I can't
tell."
"One thing is plain," said the woman. "If we are to save ourselves, her
lips must be closed. Surely that will be easy--just a nice box of
chocolates, tied with ribbon, or something like that--eh? We did it
before with little Louise, at Cheltenham."
"Yes--but I don't like doing it. She's really an awfully nice girl, and
I haven't the heart to give her a 'dose.'"
"She's watching you, you say! Therefore she's a danger to us all.
Didn't I warn you about her weeks ago? If you don't want to court
trouble, just give her a box of those beautiful expensive sweets, and
then good-bye to all our worries."
Boyne made no answer.
His wife saw his hesitation, and went on:
"It was a rotten trick at Cheltenham, I admit, but it had to be
done--just as it must be done in this case. We surely can't afford to
take any risks, my dear Bernie! What a good job that you've found out
that she suspects--eh?" she remarked. "So she must fade out--and very
quickly, too. It's up to you to do the necessary!"
"But the man--this clerk in Mincing Lane--Gerald Durrant. He's a most
pertinacious person, it seems. We have, I think, more to fear from him
than from the girl," Boyne said.
"Didn't I express doubt a week or so ago, but you assured me that it was
all right?" retorted the handsome woman. "Well--what are you going to
do?"
"Do! Why, there's only one way--put an end to their inquisitiveness,"
he replied.
"Do be careful."
Oh, I will be--never fear. But I shall want your assistance, Lilla, and
perhaps Ena's too. Neither the man nor the girl is acquainted with
either of you, which is one point in our favour."
"Have you thought out any plan?" she asked anxiously.
"I've not completed it yet," he answered.
"There must be no failure, remember," said his wife, betraying
considerable anxiety. "What could have aroused the suspicions of this
accursed girl, I wonder?"
"Ah! I can't tell. I'm always most careful. But I have confirmed my
suspicion that while the girl is in the house the fellow watches
outside. He followed me last night, and I led him a pretty good chase
up to Hampstead, where I called to see Ted Lyons."
"Ted might be useful--eh?" she exclaimed quickly.
"No. We must keep this affair to ourselves. It's far too dangerous."
"Well, Ena and I will help you. But something ought surely to be done
as soon as possible!"
"I quite agree, Lilla. But the question is how shall we act for the
best?"
"It's easy to deal with the girl--especially as she's living in your
house for a week--but how shall we tackle the man?" she asked.
"That's the difficulty. I don't want anything to happen while she's in
my house," was his reply. "I allowed her to stay because I wanted to
satisfy myself that she was really spying. Now I've confirmed my
suspicions, and we must act."
"Well, at any rate, it's a good thing that we know the truth," the woman
answered. "You must have blundered in some way or other, so it is up to
you to wriggle out of a very awkward situation."
"It is awkward, I admit," he said, gazing blankly out of the window.
"If they got to know the true secret of that upstairs room, it would
mean that we should at once be in Queer Street, in more senses than
one--shouldn't we?"
"They must not know!" said the woman in a hard, fierce tone. "You will
know how to deal with them, Bernard. People who have tried to pry into
our private affairs before have, all of them, bitterly regretted
it--haven't they?"
Boyne grunted, but made no reply.
"Will you tell Ena?" she asked.
"Not yet. It may only frighten her unduly. When I want her help I'll
see her--perhaps to-morrow," was his reply.
"I suppose we ought to have news from Lancaster Gate very soon," she
said. "Mrs. Morrison went to tea with Ena yesterday. To-day she has
gone back to Brighton, but is due here again to-morrow."
"Yes, we ought to hear of some development soon," he said with a grim
smile. "That affair is going all right. It's this girl and her man who
are so confoundedly dangerous to our plans."
"You had similar trouble with Aitken a year ago, and you found an easy
way out of it, Bernard. No doubt you'll soon think of some means by
which an end can be put to their infernal inquisitiveness."
"I have a call to make," he said, rising from his chair suddenly. "I'll
be back again this afternoon. I'm going into the City."
And he went out.
At lunch time Marigold met her lover, and it was arranged that, as he
would be at the office late that evening, he should not resume his watch
until the following evening, neither of them, of course, suspecting that
Boyne knew they were keeping him under observation or that he was busy
laying a most devilish plan for their undoing.
Gerald Durrant had grown fonder of Marigold than ever, and the pair were
now inseparable. He disliked the idea of the girl living in that house
of mystery, but she told him that she was in no way afraid, and that she
was determined to solve the curious motive of Boyne's double life.
When, at six o'clock, she returned she sat down to tea with her aunt,
and later, while she was laying Mr. Boyne's table, he came in, greeting
her cheerily, as was his wont.
His attitude towards her was distinctly friendly, for he gave no outward
sign of suspicion.
The evening passed uneventfully, for Boyne went out about eight o'clock,
and he did not return until long after the old woman and her niece were
in bed.
Marigold listened, but only heard him go up to his bedroom and close the
door. After that there was no other sound.
Boyne spent part of the following day with Lilla at Pont Street, where
he held a long and secret consultation with her, after which he took a
taxi to Upper Brook Street and sat with Ena for half an hour, explaining
what he had discovered concerning the unwelcome attention which young
Durrant and the girl was paying to him.
The Red Widow at once became greatly perturbed.
"But how much can they know?" she gasped, leaning forward in her chair,
pale and agitated.
"Very little."
"They know nothing of your upstairs friend--eh?"
"No. But they may suspect."
"Then their suspicion must be at once removed, my dear Bernie!" said the
woman, in a decisive voice. "We are, I see, confronted with a very
grave peril."
"I agree. Lionel will be wondering why I've not been up to see him
since Sunday. I shall go up this afternoon, before the girl comes back
from the bank. I've got a lot of stuff to take up to him. He's got no
kettle, poor chap!"
"Ah! What a life he must lead," said the woman.
"It is his own fault. He was too curious--and he got the worst of it,
as they all do!"
"But he was quite harmless. This fellow Durrant is our enemy."
"And he must be treated as such. I've found out a lot about his
movements," said Boyne.
"You quickly find out about people, Bernie. You're really wonderful."
"Not very wonderful, Ena," he laughed. "I simply went a few days ago to
Chalmers, the private inquiry agent in Regent Street who has done work
for me often. I told him I had lent young Durrant money, and wanted to
know something of his habits and of his friends. This morning I had a
long confidential report about him. He lives out at Ealing."
"A pity you allowed the girl to stay with her aunt. Why ever did you do
so?"
"Well, if she wished to walk into a trap, then it surely wasn't my
business to keep her out of it--was it?" he asked, with a sinister
smile. "I knew the reason why she had so suddenly been deprived of her
room at Wimbledon Park, and allowed her to think that I was a fool."
"She'll no doubt know different ere long," laughed the Red Widow.
Then, opening the door, Boyne satisfied himself that there was no
servant in the passage, and returning to her, he began to speak rapidly
in a low, tense voice.
"What?" she asked breathlessly, when he had finished. "To-night?"
"Yes, to-night--why not?" he asked. "Wear one of your smartest black
dresses. Come round and see Lilla. Then you and she can arrange
things."
"But, Bernard! It's a most desperate game!"