*CHAPTER XVIII*
*THE COUP AND ITS CONSEQUENCE*
Next day passed, but though Ena remained at home in a high state ofanxiety, she received no message from Lancaster Gate.
At eight o'clock she rang up, and spoke to the proprietress of thehotel.
"Mrs. Morrison is certainly not quite so well as she was yesterday, butthough Doctor Tressider has been twice to-day he has not yet been ableto diagnose the complaint."
"Is she in pain?" asked Mrs. Pollen sympathetically.
"No. She does not complain. But no doubt we shall know moreto-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 theconversation.
"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 afterwardssaid to Boyne, who was sitting in the handsome drawing-room.
"Oh! he will to-morrow--never fear!" was the man's grim reply. "He mustbe a duffer if he doesn't recognise the symptoms. I expected him toknow 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 Enaabout the nursing home?"
"Yes; I did so yesterday."
"I've heard that Miss Propert's, out at Golder's Green, is quite a goodplace. Nobody connected with it has any knowledge of us."
"I told her that. And she agreed. She is rather afraid that some ofMrs. Morrison's friends may come up from Brighton, and she is in no wayanxious to meet them."
"No! She mustn't do so!" declared Boyne. "She must take good care thatno 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, nointerest further than that of a comparatively freshly made friend," hesaid; and afterwards they went out to a theatre together.
Next morning, just before eleven, as Ena Pollen was contemplatingspeaking 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 yourfriend. Doctor Tressider has just been here, and says that she issuffering from diphtheria!"
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" cried the Red Widow. "How very unfortunate! Areany 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 notascend to Mrs. Morrison's room, but sat in the little office of theproprietor's wife.
"Of course she can't remain here," said the woman. "It isn't fair to myother visitors."
"Of course not," Ena agreed. "She must go at once to a nursing home. Afriend of mine had diphtheria about a year ago, and went to a placesomewhere at Golder's Green. I think Prosser or Potter was the name ofthe person who runs it. We might perhaps find it in the telephonedirectory. I think that was the name--but I'm not quite sure. PoorAugusta! I'm so sorry, but I really think it would be unwise of me togo in and see her--don't you?"
"I quite agree," replied the proprietor's wife, and, taking down thetelephone directory, she began to search for the name, but could notfind 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 anambulance at once, and soon afterwards the Red Widow was round at PontStreet reporting to Lilla all that had taken place, while early thatsame afternoon the patient had already been transferred to the nursinghome, where she had been promised by the unsuspecting matron "everyattention."
As the days passed Marigold Ramsay travelled each morning from WimbledonPark to the City, and sat each luncheon hour in the same littlerestaurant, but alone.
She was sorely puzzled why Gerald did not write to her. Without doubthe had gone somewhere to follow up a clue concerning the mystery man ofHammersmith, but she felt hurt that he had not written to tell her ofhis whereabouts.
Time after time she took out his telegram, which she carried in her bigbag-purse, and re-read it:
"_Am all right, dear. Do not worry. Have discovered something, but amnot returning for a day or two._--GERRY."
The "day or two" had elapsed. He told her not to worry, therefore shetried to obey him. Still, it was strange that he did not send her aline.
Twice she called at his office in Mincing Lane, but she was told by afemale clerk that Mr. Durrant had not returned. Nothing more had beenheard of him, except that he was away at home ill.
Marigold smiled within herself at the excuse her lover had given for hisabsence, 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 shelearned that her employer had been at home each night. The only nighthe had been absent was the night of Gerald's disappearance.
She even contrived to get a glimpse of the interior of that cupboard inMr. Boyne's bedroom, but the groceries intended for the poor widow ofNotting Hill Gate were still there intact, as well as the tea-kettle andthe bowl.
What had taken Gerald away?
For three days her anxiety increased, when on the fourth evening, on herreturn to Wimbledon, she found a telegram from him. It had beendispatched 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 afterwardsshe 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'sgone away--and why he's in Birmingham?"
"Yes," replied the girl. "It does seem curious, but think I know thereason."
"What is it?" asked his sister anxiously.
"A secret reason," was Marigold's reply. "I'm sorry that I can't tellyou--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 findout something--that's all. And until he is successful I don't think hewants anyone to know his intentions."
"Well, I hope he's made it right at his office. Employers don't like menwho pretend to be ill at home and go away."
"No doubt he has. Gerald isn't a fool," the girl replied, a littlepiqued at his sister's words, and very soon afterwards she left forhome.
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 wascomplete. He was the very essence of business, and his principal heldhim in high esteem on account of his method and his pertinacity.Marigold knew that. He was following some secret clue concerning thehooded man of Bridge Place, and it seemed as though he feared to putanything concerning it into writing.
That night as she lay awake she reflected that the message was indeedvery gratifying, yet at the same time, she found herself wondering whyhe had not written her just a few brief words.
She, however, kept her own counsel, feeling confident that Gerald wouldas 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 therenegatived
the idea that it was intended for any person concealed in thelocked room above. On thinking it all over, she began to doubt whetherthat curious cry was really human, or did it only exist in herimagination?
Next day she went to the bank as usual, but life was very dreary withoutGerald's smiling face. He was her ideal of the fine courteous man,strong, and devoid of that effeminacy which, alas! too oftencharacterises the temporary officers who so gallantly assisted inwinning the war. He had neither pose, drawl, nor affectation, as is socommon in and around Fenchurch Street. He dressed quietly, and hismanners were gentlemanly without being obtrusive. He spoke little andlistened always. In Marigold's eyes he was the type of a perfect moderngentleman--as indeed he was.
City life, with its morning rush to business from the suburbs and itsevening scramble for a seat in 'bus, train or tram, is to the businessgirl a wearing existence. The tubes, with their queux, the trains withtheir packed compartments, the 'buses with their boorish attendants, andthe trams crowded to suffocation with either rain-wet or perspiringhumanity, are part of the life of a London business girl. Yet she isalways merry and bright, for she takes things as they come and thrivesupon a gobbled breakfast or a belated home-coming.
Marigold Ramsay was typical of the London female bank clerk--eager,reliable, assiduous at her work, which consisted of poring over bigledgers all day beneath a green-shaded electric light until thefigures--units, tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, andhundreds of thousands--danced before her tired eyes ere she closed herbook and put on her hat to return home.
On the night following the receipt of that gratifying message, sherushed back to Wimbledon wondering if any further telegram awaited her.
But there was none. In disappointment she sat down to her evening meal,the one problem in her mind being the whereabouts of the young man whowas her lover and who had so mysteriously left her side and disappeared.
He could not be following Boyne, for the latter was living quite calmlyhis usual uneventful life, therefore, if he were not following him, whycould he not write to her and explain?
That point sorely perplexed her.
Meanwhile Ena Pollen telephoned twice a day to Golder's Green to inquirehow her friend Mrs. Morrison progressed, and on each occasion the matronwould answer her, but the news was of increasing gravity.
She sent kind messages, but the matron expressed regret that the patientwas too ill to be given them.
On the evening when Marigold had sped back to Wimbledon hoping for afurther telegram, Miss Propert had, after telling the Red Widow howcritical was Mrs. Morrison's condition, added that some relatives hadcome up from Brighton.
"Unfortunately, the doctor will not allow anyone to see her," she wenton. "Only this evening I have had a telegram from her sister inScotland saying she is on her way to London, but as she gives noaddress, I am unable to stop her, so her journey will be useless."
"Useless? Why?" asked Ena.
"Well--I'm sorry to tell you that the doctor who saw her an hour agoholds out but little hope of her recovery. She has diphtheria in itsmost virulent form."
"Oh! How terrible!" cried Ena. "But is it really so very serious?"
"Yes. There is no use disguising the fact. It is a most criticalcase."
"But, surely, there is no immediate danger?" she asked, full of concern.
"The critical period will be within the next twenty-four hours," camethe reply. "If she gets over to-morrow night, she will probablyrecover."
Ena Pollen held her breath, while her brows narrowed, and she made astrange grimace.
"Well, Miss Propert, you won't fail to let me know how my friendis--will you?"
"Of course not," was the reply. "I hope she will be better to-morrowmorning. But--well, personally, I entertain but little hope. I havenever seen a worse case of diphtheria."
Ena hung up the receiver, and crossing the room, took a long sniff ather smelling-salts.
Then, going back to the telephone, she rang up Lilla, and said briefly:
"Our poor friend is very bad indeed. I'll let you know how she is inthe morning. Is Bernard there?"
"No; he's just gone back," answered her friend.
"Well, I want you both to dine here to-morrow night. Will you?"
"Why?"
"You know the reason--_surely_!"
"Oh, yes--yes! Very well, dear. At half-past seven."
So that was agreed.
Next morning, just before noon, Boyne called at Pont Street and learnedfrom Lilla--who had just spoken to Ena--that Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairnwas in an extremely critical condition.
"H'm!" grunted her husband. "Then all goes as it should--eh? No otheracute disease presents so great a liability to sudden death asdiphtheria. I suppose the doctor, whoever he is, has been all alongexamining the patient's heart for any indication of an approachingcatastrophe."
"But sudden death can't take place--can it?" asked Lilla.
"Oh, yes," replied her husband in a voice of authority. "The moreinsidious forms of sudden death from diphtheria take place through thenervous system and heart. In such a case the pulse beats only twenty orthirty a minute--and that is probably what has aroused the doctor'sfears."
"But, according to Ena, she hasn't a very bad throat."
"That may be so," he said, speaking in the way of a medical man. "Shemay have an extension of the false membrane into the air passage, whichwould block the larynx trachea or bronchi, which is always gradual, andmay be fatal. But if the doctor has come to the conclusion that she'sin a very bad way, I should think that the end will come this evening."
"You'll dine at Ena's--eh?"
"Of course I will. I'll be there just after seven," he said, and, afterleisurely finishing a cigarette, he left her.
Just before half-past seven he entered Ena Pollen's flat, where Lillawas already seated in the drawing-room. He wore a simple blue sergesuit, for that night he had come straight from Hammersmith, and had notdressed to go to a restaurant or the theatre.
"Well?" he asked the Red Widow. "Anything fresh?"
"Nothing. I telephoned to Golder's Green an hour ago, and found MissPropert was most despondent."
"Poor dear!" laughed Lilla. "What a pity! Her bill will be paid allright--so she needn't fret!"
Presently they sat down to a very pleasant little dinner, where, withsardonic laughter, the trio of death-dealers lifted their glasses ofchampagne to "dear Augusta's speedy recovery."
After dinner they returned to the drawing-room, where they took theirliqueurs and coffee, all three being in excellent spirits.
The only serious moment was when the Red Widow suddenly remarked:
"I don't half like the situation concerning that young fellow Durrant!Do you know, I feel some strange presage of evil--I mean that we mayhave made a slip there."
"Slip!" laughed Boyne derisively. "Nothing of the kind, my dear Ena! Isaw to that all right. And surely you can trust me?"
"But suppose we have?"
"No need to worry further about him. He won't trouble us any more."
"The next person to be silenced is that girl," Lilla said in a hardvoice.
"Yes," was Boyne's slow reply. "I think I've formed a plan which willbe just as successful as that we carried out concerning her tooinquisitive lover."
And as he spoke, he blew a cloud of smoke from his lips and watched itcurl towards the ceiling.
Suddenly--it was then about ten o'clock--almost as the words fell fromhis lips, the telephone bell rang sharply.
All three started.
"Ah!" gasped Ena, springing up. "There you are! At last!"
"Yes," she replied, taking up the receiver. Then, listening, sheexclaimed: "Oh! you, Miss Propert--well? Oh! How dreadful!--how verysad! She passed away ten minutes ago! Thank you so much for tellingme. I'm so sorry--so very sorry!"
And she replaced the receiver.
"You look sorry!" laughed Boyne. "Really, it is most distressing tothink that we s
hall very soon draw ten thousand pounds!" he addedmockingly, whereat the two women laughed gaily, for the coup soelaborately prepared had at last been brought off!