calls for drastic measures."
"But will the trap be sufficiently well-baited?"
"I'll see to that--never fear! Just act as I tell you and to-morrow we
shan't have much to fear from at least one of this inquisitive pair!"
For a few minutes she seemed lost in thought.
"Ah! I see you are hesitating, Ena!" he laughed again.
"I am. It's a terrible plot!"
"Bah! Fancy you saying so--you! who have assisted to bring off so many
little affairs that have brought us big money. Surely you're not
growing squeamish now, at a moment when we are all in distinct peril?"
"No," she answered with an effort, for it was evident that the plan
which he had placed before her had held her horrified. "No, I--I'm
not--not at all squeamish, but--well--I'm wondering if we couldn't find
some other way out of it."
"None. We're in danger, and we must take precautions to defend
ourselves--at once--to-night!"
"Very well," she answered somewhat reluctantly. "I'll go round to Lilla
about six."
"When we meet we shall do so as strangers, of course," he said, with a
sinister smile. "Look your best--won't you?"
"Very well," she laughed, and five minutes later he sat down at the
telephone in the room and spoke to his wife.
"All right, Lilla," he said. "Ena will be with you about six. I've
told her exactly what we've arranged. I'm now going back to
Hammersmith," and, after hanging up the receiver, he took leave of the
Red Widow and went direct to Bridge Place.
Mrs. Felmore was surprised that her master should return so early, for
he was at home before five. Marigold had not come in from the office,
therefore he sent the deaf old woman out to the post, and, putting on
his long white gown, took up to the attic the new tin kettle and some
other things. But he did not obtain them from that cupboard in his
room. He had purchased duplicates on his way home.
He was not upstairs for more than five minutes--just sufficient to
reassure the weird recluse and hand to him the necessities required.
Then he came down again, and calmly read the evening paper till his meal
was ready.
Marigold did not return before seven, but she left her lover to resume
his vigil outside.
At eight o'clock Bernard Boyne went out as usual, and Marigold spent
another quiet evening with her aunt, confident that Gerald was keeping a
very vigilant eye upon the man of mystery!
Next day at the lunch hour she went eagerly to the little restaurant,
but he did not put in an appearance. She wondered why.
On returning to the bank she at once rang up his office, but was
informed that he had not been there that day! He had sent his principal
a telegram stating that he had been suddenly taken ill, and apologised
for his absence. The doctor had said that he could not return for
several days.
Making excuse to Mr. Kenyon, the assistant manager, she left the bank at
four, and at once went over to Ealing, only to find that his sister had
received a telegram late on the previous night, which had been handed in
at Charing Cross Post Office and read:
"_Don't worry! Am all right. Returning in two or three days.
Writing._--GERALD."
Further mystified, she at once went back to Hammersmith, where she found
a telegram which had arrived for her at eleven o'clock that morning. It
had been dispatched from Knightsbridge, and read:
"_Am all right, dear! Do not worry. Have discovered something, but am
not returning for a day or two._--GERRY."
"Is it from Mr. Boyne?" asked her aunt as she watched the girl's face.
"No. Why?" she asked.
"Because Mr. Boyne hasn't been home all night," was her aunt's reply.
"I can't think what's happened to him! When I went up this morning to
wake him, because I thought he had overslept himself, I found that his
bed had not been slept in!"
*CHAPTER XVII*
*"NEWS" FROM LANCASTER GATE*
Marigold was naturally much puzzled.
What had her lover discovered? What did he know?
By the varying forms of the telegrams she saw that he had excused
himself from the office upon a plea of illness, while really he was
working in secret to elucidate the mystery of the hooded man of
Hammersmith.
The fact that Boyne had been absent that night and had not yet returned,
did not arouse her curiosity, for she concluded that Gerry had been
following him ever since the previous evening.
She relied upon her lover's cleverness and ingenuity. The changing of
his clothes showed her that he was resourceful. She admired him for it.
So she took her tea with her aunt, and afterwards laid Mr. Boyne's table
in eager readiness for his return.
He came in and greeted her as cheerily as usual.
"Tell Mrs. Felmore that I expect she's been wondering where I've been
all this time. But I went out to Loughton, in Essex, to see a friend
last night, and I stayed there. Tell her so, Miss Marigold, will you?
And now for my supper! I'm horribly hungry!"
He ate his meal, yet not by any means in the manner of a hungry man. He
only toyed with it, for, a matter of fact, he had left Pont Street half
an hour before, having taken leave of the Red Widow and his wife, whose
faces had borne grim smiles of complete satisfaction.
That night as Marigold lay awake, unable to sleep, she became obsessed
by the one idea that she ought to leave the house of mystery and return
to Wimbledon Park.
Gerald, by his mysterious message to her, had evidently got upon the
track of something, therefore it was useless for her to remain any
longer in that strange atmosphere of doubt and fear.
Boyne had retired, and though she remained on the alert until the first
streak of dawn shone through the blinds, she heard no movement to arouse
her suspicion.
Next day, when she came down into the kitchen, she told her aunt that
she was returning home. So, taking her blouse-case, she left before Mr.
Boyne came downstairs.
"Marigold has gone to the bank, sir," said Mrs. Felmore when she placed
Boyne's coffee and kippers upon the table. "She left word that she
thanks you very much for allowing her to stay here, but she couldn't
encroach on your kind hospitality any longer."
"Oh!" exclaimed Boyne in surprise. "She's gone--eh?"
"Yes, sir. She went out a quarter of an hour ago. She waited to see if
you came down--but she had to go."
Boyne grunted, and remarked something beneath his breath--words that the
deaf woman, even with her expert lip-reading eyes, could not understand.
Marigold had slipped safely out of the way. The fact filled him with
intense chagrin. What did it portend?
"At least Durrant's activity is at an end!" he growled deeply to
himself. "Now we have to deal with this girl. For the present nobody
can know of the whereabouts of Gerald Durrant. When they do--I hope the
peril will be over!"
And he swallowed his coffee with the gusto and satisfaction of a man who
had made a most complete coup, and from whose mind some great weight had
been lifted.
An hour later he entered the Hammersmith Post Office and telephoned to
the Red Widow.
"Any news, Ena?" he asked as he sat in one of the boxes.
"Yes. Augusta spoke to me half an hour ago. I'm going round to
Lancaster Gate at eleven. She's taken ill. A pity, isn't it?"
"Sorry to hear that!" he replied in a grim voice. "I'll see you at Pont
Street at seven--eh?"
"Yes. I'll run round," Ena answered. "I've just been through to Lilla.
I wonder what can be the matter with poor Augusta? A chill,
perhaps--eh? Poor lady! But I hope it isn't serious."
"I hope not. Good-bye for the present."
And then the honest, hard-working collector of insurance premiums of the
poor of Hammersmith went forth upon his daily round, trudging from
street to street, knocking or ringing at the doors of the insured.
He made a call in Dalling Road, just beyond the railway arch, and then,
proceeding up the thoroughfare, consulted his pocket account-book.
Close to Chiswick High Road he made a further call, where he signed the
book for the weekly premium.
Presently he halted at a small and very poor-looking house in the
Devonport Road, a turning off the Goldhawk Road, where he rang at the
door. At the windows were curtains blackened by the London smoke, for
the whole neighbourhood was one of genteel poverty, but of despair.
An ugly, but cleanly dressed old woman answered, and, seeing him, knit
her brows.
"Ah! Come in, Mr. Boyne!" she said, and the collector of premiums
entered.
Five minutes later he came out, the old woman following him. He was
evidently not himself, for usually his was a kindly nature towards the
poor. But that day his manner was rough and uncouth. Something had upset
him.
"Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Pentreath," he said in a loud voice. "But, you
see, it isn't in my hands. I'm only a humble servant of the company--an
ill-paid servant who gets just a living wage upon the premiums he
collects. You've had time to pay, you know, and if you can't pay up
this week--well, the policy must lapse. You've been given notice of it
for six weeks. The company has been very lenient with you. Other
companies wouldn't have been so lenient."
"But my poor Bertha! She's come home from service, and is in bed with
consumption. I have to look after her and try to give her the
nourishment Doctor James orders. It isn't my fault that I haven't paid
you. It really isn't."
"I can't help that," replied Boyne roughly. "Your insurance policy must
lapse--that's all.
"And after fifteen years that I've paid regularly each week!" exclaimed
the poor woman in dismay.
"Well, it isn't my fault, I tell you. I'm not the company," was his
harsh reply.
"And my poor Bertha so ill. It's cruel--it's inhuman, I say!" she
shouted in a shrill voice.
Boyne only smiled grimly. He was not the kindly man of other days.
"It probably is so," he replied, turning away from the door. "But it's
our insurance business; and business is business, after all!
"Yes!" retorted the poor woman. "You people are robbing the
poor--that's what it is! And after fifteen years! Why, I've paid your
company more in that time than what they would have paid to bury my
Bertha!"
At a small house in the Loftus Road he knocked three times, and a
dwarfed, red-eyed girl at last opened the door.
"Poor mother's dead, Mr. Boyne! Didn't you see the blinds?" she asked.
"Dead!" he exclaimed, looking at the little window of the sitting-room.
"Get your book."
"I'll go and get it," was the girl's reply. "Mother died late last
night. The doctor says it's heart disease."
"All right. Give me the book," he said brutally. "I suppose we'll have
to pay. You paid up last week, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir, I paid you--and you'll find it down," the girl said, and,
disappearing, she presently returned with the insurance book.
The house-to-house visits of the insurance collector of those fat
dividend paying companies who insure the lives of the lower classes are
truly fraught with many strange dramas and stirring tales of poverty and
misfortune.
While Bernard Boyne was on his weary round, Ena Pollen alighted from a
taxi at the private hotel in Lancaster Gate, a big, old-fashioned house
which for years had been known to country visitors to London as a quiet
and excellent place in which to stay.
The young man-servant who opened the door told her that Mrs. Morrison
was upstairs. The proprietor's wife met her in the hall, and, in
response to the Red Widow's inquiry, said:
"Mrs. Morrison hasn't been very well for a couple of days. She was
taken ill last night, so I called my doctor--Doctor Tressider--and he
came to see her. He seems puzzled. He can't make out at present what's
the matter with her. He's calling again to-night. She came over very
ill when she returned from Brighton."
"I'll go upstairs," said Mrs. Pollen. "It is most unfortunate, isn't
it? She's only here in town for a short time, and now she's taken ill
like this. I do hope it's nothing serious."
"Oh, no. I asked Doctor Tressider, and he thinks it is simply a little
stomach trouble. To-morrow she'll be better," was the woman's reply.
So Ena ascended the stairs, and, after tapping at the door, entered the
neat little bedroom on the second floor.
"Well, dear!" she exclaimed cheerily as she entered. "I couldn't let
the day pass without coming to see you. Whatever is the matter?"
"I really don't know, Ena," replied Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn. "I
felt so ill in the train coming up to Victoria that I had great
difficulty in getting back here."
"But the doctor says you'll be all right to-morrow," said Ena.
"I feel awfully ill," replied the other feebly. "I seem so
feverish--hot at one moment and cold at another."
"No, no," said Mrs. Pollen cheerily. "You'll be all right, never fear.
When one feels feverish one's temperature is generally below normal. I
do hope these people are looking after you all right?"
"Oh, yes, they do. I have no complaint to make on that score. You
recommended me here, and I must say that I'm most comfortable. But what
worries me is my visit up North."
"Don't bother about that," laughed the other. "Get well first. Write
and tell them you can't come."
"I wish you would do it for me. Pen and paper are over there," said the
sick woman, whose eyes glistened strangely.
"No; you must do it," replied Ena quickly. She had a reason. "If I
were to write to them they might think it strange. You are not too ill
to write. I'll get you the pad."
And, carrying it to her on the bed, she induced Mrs. Morrison to write
two letters to her friends--letters which she duly posted when she got
outside.
"The doctor doesn't seem to know what is the matter with me," the
invalid said in a weak voice after she had laid down her fountain pen.
"My head is so terribly bad--and my throat too."
"What time is he coming again?"
"To-night, I think. I hope so."
"My dear, it's only a chill," Ena said with comforting cheerfulness.
"You'll be all right in a day or two. You've been in a draught,
perhaps."
"Ah! but my head! It seems as though it must burst. At times I can't
think. All my senses seem blurred."
"Did you tell the doctor that?"
"Yes. And it seemed to puzzle him more than ever. I hope I'm not going
to have a bad illness."
"Of course not," laughed Ena. "You'll be better in a day or so. Remain
quiet, and I'll run in to-morrow morning to see how you are. If you're
worse, tell them to ring me up. I'm just going round to the Davidsons.
They will be most distressed to hear of your sudden illness."
The widow of Carsphairn turned over on her pillow and moaned slightly.
Her face was flushed, and it was evident to Ena that the last words she
had uttered the sick woman had not understood.
So she took her leave, and on descending the stairs to the wide hall,
again encountered the proprietor's wife.
"My friend Mrs. Morrison seems very unwell," said Ena. "I can't make it
out at all. I do hope the doctor will discover what is the matter with
her."
"Doctor Tressider is my own doctor," replied the woman. "He'll be here
again before dinner time, and I hope he won't find anything really very
wrong."
"Well, whatever he says, would you mind letting me know over the
'phone?" asked Ena, taking out her visiting-card, upon which was printed
her telephone number.
"Certainly I will," was the reply.
"And if there is anything serious I'll come round at once," she said.
So they parted, and Ena hailed a taxi outside, and returned to Upper
Brook Street well satisfied with her morning's work.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*THE COUP AND ITS CONSEQUENCE*
Next day passed, but though Ena remained at home in a high state of
anxiety, she received no message from Lancaster Gate.
At eight o'clock she rang up, and spoke to the proprietress of the
hotel.
"Mrs. Morrison is certainly not quite so well as she was yesterday, but
though Doctor Tressider has been twice to-day he has not yet been able
to diagnose the complaint."
"Is she in pain?" asked Mrs. Pollen sympathetically.
"No. She does not complain. But no doubt we shall know more
to-morrow."
"Very well. Please tell her I inquired, and to-morrow, about eleven,
I'll call and see her again."
And, having rung off, she spoke to Lilla, telling her of the
conversation.
"You'll go to-morrow and see her, my dear," urged Boyne's wife.
"Bernard is here. I'll tell him."
"What about the girl?" asked Ena.
"Oh, for the present she's all right. She's gone back to Wimbledon.
The telegrams have satisfied her."
"Right! Then I'll see you to-morrow after I've been to Lancaster Gate,"
said the Red Widow, and then they broke off the conversation.
"Well, the doctor doesn't know yet what's the matter," Lilla afterwards
said to Boyne, who was sitting in the handsome drawing-room.
"Oh! he will to-morrow--never fear!" was the man's grim reply. "He must
be a duffer if he doesn't recognise the symptoms. I expected him to
know yesterday."
"You thought we should have had news on Wednesday, and it's now Friday."
"Yes. But delay is rather a good sign," he said. "Did you tell Ena
about the nursing home?"
"Yes; I did so yesterday."
"I've heard that Miss Propert's, out at Golder's Green, is quite a good
place. Nobody connected with it has any knowledge of us."
"I told her that. And she agreed. She is rather afraid that some of
Mrs. Morrison's friends may come up from Brighton, and she is in no way
anxious to meet them."
"No! She mustn't do so!" declared Boyne. "She must take good care that
no friends are at Lancaster Gate when she calls."
"Good! I'll tell her that over the 'phone presently."
"And also tell her not to take a too eager interest in her--I mean, no
interest further than that of a comparatively freshly made friend," he
said; and afterwards they went out to a theatre together.
Next morning, just before eleven, as Ena Pollen was contemplating
speaking with Mrs. Morrison's hotel, the proprietor's wife rang up.
"Mrs. Pollen," she said, "I'm very sorry to give you bad news about your
friend. Doctor Tressider has just been here, and says that she is
suffering from diphtheria!"
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" cried the Red Widow. "How very unfortunate! Are
any other friends there?"
"No. But I believe somebody is coming up from Brighton this afternoon."
"Very well," said Ena. "I'll take a taxi and come round now."
This she did. Pleading that she might become infected, she did not
ascend to Mrs. Morrison's room, but sat in the little office of the
proprietor's wife.
"Of course she can't remain here," said the woman. "It isn't fair to my
other visitors."
"Of course not," Ena agreed. "She must go at once to a nursing home. A
friend of mine had diphtheria about a year ago, and went to a place
somewhere at Golder's Green. I think Prosser or Potter was the name of
the person who runs it. We might perhaps find it in the telephone
directory. I think that was the name--but I'm not quite sure. Poor
Augusta! I'm so sorry, but I really think it would be unwise of me to
go in and see her--don't you?"
"I quite agree," replied the proprietor's wife, and, taking down the
telephone directory, she began to search for the name, but could not
find it.
At last, after some minutes, she exclaimed:
"Ah! Here it is. Miss Propert's nursing home. Yes, Golder's Green!
Here is the number. I'll telephone and ask if they have a room vacant."
Five minutes later it was fixed. Miss Propert had promised to send an
ambulance at once, and soon afterwards the Red Widow was round at Pont
Street reporting to Lilla all that had taken place, while early that
same afternoon the patient had already been transferred to the nursing
home, where she had been promised by the unsuspecting matron "every
attention."
As the days passed Marigold Ramsay travelled each morning from Wimbledon
Park to the City, and sat each luncheon hour in the same little
restaurant, but alone.
She was sorely puzzled why Gerald did not write to her. Without doubt
he had gone somewhere to follow up a clue concerning the mystery man of
Hammersmith, but she felt hurt that he had not written to tell her of
his whereabouts.
Time after time she took out his telegram, which she carried in her big
bag-purse, and re-read it:
"_Am all right, dear. Do not worry. Have discovered something, but am
not returning for a day or two._--GERRY."
The "day or two" had elapsed. He told her not to worry, therefore she
tried to obey him. Still, it was strange that he did not send her a
line.
Twice she called at his office in Mincing Lane, but she was told by a
female clerk that Mr. Durrant had not returned. Nothing more had been
heard of him, except that he was away at home ill.
Marigold smiled within herself at the excuse her lover had given for his
absence, and wondered hour by hour what he had discovered concerning Mr.
Boyne.
She went over to Hammersmith and had tea with her aunt. From her she
learned that her employer had been at home each night. The only night
he had been absent was the night of Gerald's disappearance.
She even contrived to get a glimpse of the interior of that cupboard in
Mr. Boyne's bedroom, but the groceries intended for the poor widow of
Notting Hill Gate were still there intact, as well as the tea-kettle and
the bowl.
What had taken Gerald away?
For three days her anxiety increased, when on the fourth evening, on her
return to Wimbledon, she found a telegram from him. It had been
dispatched from the post-office in Bristol Road, Birmingham, and read:
"_Returning very soon, dearest. Remain patient. Tell my sister.
Love._--GERRY."
Time after time she read it with complete satisfaction, and afterwards
she went out to Ealing and showed it to her lover's sister.
"That takes a great weight off my mind, Marigold," said Gerald's sister.
"Still, his sudden disappearance seems very strange. I wonder why he's
gone away--and why he's in Birmingham?"
"Yes," replied the girl. "It does seem curious, but think I know the
reason."
"What is it?" asked his sister anxiously.
"A secret reason," was Marigold's reply. "I'm sorry that I can't tell
you--not unless he gives me permission."
"What--is anything wrong?" asked the young woman.
"Oh, nothing wrong with Gerald--not at all. Only he is trying to find
out something--that's all. And until he is successful I don't think he
wants anyone to know his intentions."
"Well, I hope he's made it right at his office. Employers don't like men
who pretend to be ill at home and go away."
"No doubt he has. Gerald isn't a fool," the girl replied, a little
piqued at his sister's words, and very soon afterwards she left for
home.
The message from Birmingham allayed her anxiety to a very great extent.
When once Gerald took up any matter he never left it until it was
complete. He was the very essence of business, and his principal held
him in high esteem on account of his method and his pertinacity.
Marigold knew that. He was following some secret clue concerning the
hooded man of Bridge Place, and it seemed as though he feared to put
anything concerning it into writing.
That night as she lay awake she reflected that the message was indeed
very gratifying, yet at the same time, she found herself wondering why
he had not written her just a few brief words.
She, however, kept her own counsel, feeling confident that Gerald would
as soon as possible return to tell her what he had found out.
The fact that the store of food in Boyne's bedroom was still there
negatived the idea that it was intended for any person concealed in the
locked room above. On thinking it all over, she began to doubt whether
that curious cry was really human, or did it only exist in her
imagination?
Next day she went to the bank as usual, but life was very dreary without
Gerald's smiling face. He was her ideal of the fine courteous man,
strong, and devoid of that effeminacy which, alas! too often
characterises the temporary officers who so gallantly assisted in
winning the war. He had neither pose, drawl, nor affectation, as is so
common in and around Fenchurch Street. He dressed quietly, and his
manners were gentlemanly without being obtrusive. He spoke little and
listened always. In Marigold's eyes he was the type of a perfect modern
gentleman--as indeed he was.