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--Celine,
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 Celine 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 XXVI*
*"GET RID OF THE GIRL!"*
Ten days more had passed. Poor Mrs. Morrison had been buried at
Brookwood, her sister and several relatives being among the mourners.
Notice had been given through a solicitor to the insurance company of
the assignment of the policy for ten thousand pounds to Mrs. Braybourne.
The solicitor, a perfectly respectable man practising in the City, had
received a call from Mrs. Braybourne of Pont Street, and she had handed
him the policy and the assignment. Boyne had first made secret
inquiries regarding the unsuspecting lawyer, and found him to be a man
with a very high reputation in his profession.
Hence the Red Widow and her two associates, having successfully defied
the French ex-maid and her lover, were now awaiting payment by the
insurance company. Boyne, on his part, had cleverly destroyed all
traces of the secret of that upstairs room in which had lived for some
time the half-demented, eccentric Lionel Gosden, who was so blindly
obedient to every order of the criminal who held him in control.
"There only remains that girl!" remarked Boyne as he sat with his wife
one night.
"Yes. The sooner she's out of the way the better, my dear Bernie. She
knows far too much."
"I've got the remainder of the stuff from Lionel."
"Then it will be quite easy. I needn't tell you the way."
Boyne smiled as he took another cigarette from his case.
"Yes," he said. "And then I think that Ena and I will clear off abroad
and leave you as the lone widow in whose favour dear Augusta insured her
life."
"True. We ought to part as soon as possible. What do they think of your
absence from Hammersmith?"
"Oh, they know my home is burned up, but I put in an appearance now and
then and collect up a few premiums just to show myself."
"I wonder what the girl told the police?" Lilla remarked thoughtfully.
"Some story which they, no doubt, put down to be a cock-and-bull
statement--about the locked room, most probably. She might have heard
Lionel moving about, or coughing, before I got him away from there. If
so the noise would naturally excite her suspicion."
"What about the man Durrant?"
"Oh, we needn't trouble about him. It will be months before he can get
back again, and when he does, he'll find none of us here, the girl
dead--of natural causes, of course--and the house being rebuilt. We
have nothing to fear from him, providing we can get rid of the girl."
"And that must be done at once," the handsome woman repeated. "While
she is alive she will be a constant menace to us."
Next morning, when he left Pont Street, he went to the City, and,
knowing that Marigold always went out at a quarter to one to her lunch,
he waited outside the bank.
At last she came, a neatly-dressed and dainty figure of the true type of
business girl, and at the corner of Fenchurch Street he met her as
though by accident, and raised his hat.
"Why, Mr. Boyne!" she exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes. This is an unexpected meeting, Miss Marigold! I haven't seen you
since the fire," he said. "How lucky that you and your aunt escaped! I
can't think how it was caused, except that your aunt perhaps dropped a
match upstairs before going to bed."
"No, Mr. Boyne," she said. "It's a mystery. I'm glad, however, that
auntie is recovering from the shock."
"Have you heard anything lately of Mr.--what is his name?--Durrant,
isn't it?"
"Not a word. I can't think what has become of him. They've heard
nothing at his office since his last telegram."
"Oh! I shouldn't worry. He told you in his message not to worry, you
know," he said cheerfully.
Marigold distrusted the man, yet she remembered how she and Gerald had
resolved, at all hazards, to penetrate the mystery surrounding him. She
could not deny that he had always been polite and generous towards her,
and her aunt would never have a more kind and considerate master.
"Come and have some lunch with me," he suggested suddenly, as he glanced
at his watch. "I'm just going to have mine. And I want to talk over
your aunt's future--what she is to do while my house is being rebuilt."
Marigold hesitated a few seconds. Then she replied:
"I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Boyne, but my assistant is away ill, and we're
most awfully busy in the bank to-day. I am only out for ten minutes
this morning, I usually have half an hour."
"Then come somewhere and have dinner with me to-night."
"I can't to-night. I'm going to the theatre with a girl friend."
"To-morrow night, then," he said. "I'll meet you at Piccadilly tube
station, say at seven, and we'll dine somewhere--eh?"
Again Marigold hesitated. She was naturally distrustful, yet she argued
within herself that perhaps if she accepted his invitation she might
learn from him something of interest.
"No," he laughed merrily. "I'm sure you won't refuse me, Marigold. I
want to see what I can do for your aunt--because--well, perhaps I may
not set up house again. And I don't want to leave her in the lurch,
poor deaf old soul."
His solicitude for her aunt touched her, and so she promised to meet him
as he suggested.
Then two minutes later he raised his hat and they parted.
As the girl sat with her glass of milk and sandwiches before her in the
little teashop, strange thoughts crowded through her mind. The refusal
of the police to assist her to find Gerald had hipped her, and ever
since the night of the fire she had gone about utterly disconsolate and
broken-hearted. The fire was mysterious, coming within an hour or so of
her visit to the police. Yes; the more she reflected, the stranger
still appeared the whole enigma.
She returned to the bank and sat hour after hour her books, but her only
thought was of Gerald the reason of his disappearance.
Next day, just before noon, while she was busy at the bank, one of the
male clerks came to her desk, and said:
"Miss Ramsay, you're wanted on the telephone."
"Me!" exclaimed Marigold, much surprised, for none of the staff were
allowed to speak on the telephone except upon urgent family affairs.
"Was this one?"
She hurried to the telephone-box and heard a female voice, which she
recognised as that of Gerald's sister at Ealing.
"You there, Marigold. Listen!" she said. "I've just had a wire from
Gerald. It's sent from Folkestone Harbour, and says:
"'_Back again. Don't worry. With you soon, but not yet. Marigold
knows why. Have wired her._--GERALD.'"
"Oh, how lovely!" cried the girl over the 'phone in wild delight. "I
expect I've got a wire at Wimbledon. I'll tell you what he says. Such
lots of thanks for ringing up. Good-bye. I'll come over and see you
soon, dear. Righto!"
And she hung up the receiver, her cheeks flushed with the excitement of
the good news.
Gerald--her Gerald--had spoken at last!
Further adding of figures that day was out of the question. She could
not work, but, ever and anon, she raised her eyes to the big clock, the
hands of which moved, oh! so slowly. At last five o'clock came, and she
put her books away in the trolley ready to be wheeled to the strong room
by the uniformed messenger, and putting on her hat and coat hurried away
home in the crowded tube.
She missed her train, and things seemed to move too slow for her, but on
arrival at the station she raced home. Yes, in the narrow hall of the
little suburban villa lay a telegram on the hat-stand.
She tore it open with frantic haste, and read:
"_Do not make inquiry about me. Am quite safe, and am in possession of
some very important facts. Just returned from abroad. Be watchful, but
do not feel anxious. Am quite all right. Love._--GERALD."