*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 excusedhimself from the office upon a plea of illness, while really he wasworking in secret to elucidate the mystery of the hooded man ofHammersmith.
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 beenfollowing him ever since the previous evening.
She relied upon her lover's cleverness and ingenuity. The changing ofhis 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 tablein 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 beenall this time. But I went out to Loughton, in Essex, to see a friendlast 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. Heonly toyed with it, for, a matter of fact, he had left Pont Street halfan hour before, having taken leave of the Red Widow and his wife, whosefaces had borne grim smiles of complete satisfaction.
That night as Marigold lay awake, unable to sleep, she became obsessedby the one idea that she ought to leave the house of mystery and returnto Wimbledon Park.
Gerald, by his mysterious message to her, had evidently got upon thetrack of something, therefore it was useless for her to remain anylonger in that strange atmosphere of doubt and fear.
Boyne had retired, and though she remained on the alert until the firststreak of dawn shone through the blinds, she heard no movement to arouseher suspicion.
Next day, when she came down into the kitchen, she told her aunt thatshe 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 placedBoyne's coffee and kippers upon the table. "She left word that shethanks you very much for allowing her to stay here, but she couldn'tencroach 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 ifyou came down--but she had to go."
Boyne grunted, and remarked something beneath his breath--words that thedeaf woman, even with her expert lip-reading eyes, could not understand.
Marigold had slipped safely out of the way. The fact filled him withintense chagrin. What did it portend?
"At least Durrant's activity is at an end!" he growled deeply tohimself. "Now we have to deal with this girl. For the present nobodycan know of the whereabouts of Gerald Durrant. When they do--I hope theperil will be over!"
And he swallowed his coffee with the gusto and satisfaction of a man whohad made a most complete coup, and from whose mind some great weight hadbeen lifted.
An hour later he entered the Hammersmith Post Office and telephoned tothe 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 toLancaster 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 PontStreet 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 thepoor of Hammersmith went forth upon his daily round, trudging fromstreet 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 thebook for the weekly premium.
Presently he halted at a small and very poor-looking house in theDevonport Road, a turning off the Goldhawk Road, where he rang at thedoor. At the windows were curtains blackened by the London smoke, forthe whole neighbourhood was one of genteel poverty, but of despair.
An ugly, but cleanly dressed old woman answered, and, seeing him, knither brows.
"Ah! Come in, Mr. Boyne!" she said, and the collector of premiumsentered.
Five minutes later he came out, the old woman following him. He wasevidently not himself, for usually his was a kindly nature towards thepoor. But that day his manner was rough and uncouth. Something had upsethim.
"Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Pentreath," he said in a loud voice. "But, yousee, it isn't in my hands. I'm only a humble servant of the company--anill-paid servant who gets just a living wage upon the premiums hecollects. You've had time to pay, you know, and if you can't pay upthis week--well, the policy must lapse. You've been given notice of itfor six weeks. The company has been very lenient with you. Othercompanies wouldn't have been so lenient."
"But my poor Bertha! She's come home from service, and is in bed withconsumption. I have to look after her and try to give her thenourishment Doctor James orders. It isn't my fault that I haven't paidyou. It really isn't."
"I can't help that," replied Boyne roughly. "Your insurance policy mustlapse--that's all.
"And after fifteen years that I've paid regularly each week!" exclaimedthe poor woman in dismay.
"Well, it isn't my fault, I tell you. I'm not the company," was hisharsh reply.
"And my poor Bertha so ill. It's cruel--it's inhuman, I say!" sheshouted 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'sour insurance business; and business is business, after all!
"Yes!" retorted the poor woman. "You people are robbing thepoor--that's what it is! And after fifteen years! Why, I've paid yourcompany more in that time than what they would have paid to bury myBertha!"
At a small house in the Loftus Road he knocked three times, and adwarfed, 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 lastnight. The doctor says it's heart disease."
"All right. Give me the book," he said brutally. "I suppose we'll haveto 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 fatdividend paying companies who insure the lives of the lower classes aretruly fraught with many strange dramas and stirring tales of poverty andmisfortune.
While Bernard Boyne was on his weary round, Ena Pollen alighted from ataxi at the private hotel in Lancaster Gate, a big, old-fashioned housewhich for years had been known to country visitors to London as a quietand excellent place in which to stay.
The young man-servant who opened the door told her that Mrs. Morrisonwas upstairs. The proprietor's wife met her in the hall, and, inresponse to the Red Widow's inquiry, said:
"Mrs. Morrison hasn't been very well for a couple of days. She wastaken ill last night, so I called my doctor--Doctor Tressider--and hecame to see her. He seems puzzled. He can't make out at present what'sthe matter with her. He's calling again to-night. She came over veryill when she returned from Brighton."
"I'll go upstairs," said Mrs. Pollen. "It is most unfortunate, isn'tit? She's only here in town for a short time, and now she's taken illli
ke this. I do hope it's nothing serious."
"Oh, no. I asked Doctor Tressider, and he thinks it is simply a littlestomach trouble. To-morrow she'll be better," was the woman's reply.
So Ena ascended the stairs, and, after tapping at the door, entered theneat little bedroom on the second floor.
"Well, dear!" she exclaimed cheerily as she entered. "I couldn't letthe day pass without coming to see you. Whatever is the matter?"
"I really don't know, Ena," replied Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn. "Ifelt so ill in the train coming up to Victoria that I had greatdifficulty 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 sofeverish--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. Ido hope these people are looking after you all right?"
"Oh, yes, they do. I have no complaint to make on that score. Yourecommended me here, and I must say that I'm most comfortable. But whatworries me is my visit up North."
"Don't bother about that," laughed the other. "Get well first. Writeand tell them you can't come."
"I wish you would do it for me. Pen and paper are over there," said thesick woman, whose eyes glistened strangely.
"No; you must do it," replied Ena quickly. She had a reason. "If Iwere to write to them they might think it strange. You are not too illto write. I'll get you the pad."
And, carrying it to her on the bed, she induced Mrs. Morrison to writetwo letters to her friends--letters which she duly posted when she gotoutside.
"The doctor doesn't seem to know what is the matter with me," theinvalid 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'tthink. 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 goingto have a bad illness."
"Of course not," laughed Ena. "You'll be better in a day or so. Remainquiet, and I'll run in to-morrow morning to see how you are. If you'reworse, 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 shehad 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 itout at all. I do hope the doctor will discover what is the matter withher."
"Doctor Tressider is my own doctor," replied the woman. "He'll be hereagain before dinner time, and I hope he won't find anything really verywrong."
"Well, whatever he says, would you mind letting me know over the'phone?" asked Ena, taking out her visiting-card, upon which was printedher 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 UpperBrook Street well satisfied with her morning's work.