Again, as he stood against the hatchway gazing wistfully at the distant French coast that was fast disappearing, the thought suddenly occurred to him that if his disappearance was actually due to Boyne, then the latter must have, somehow or other, discovered the fact that he was keeping him under observation. If Boyne had really found it out, then he would also know that Marigold had been assisting him. This would, no doubt, lead him to suspect the real motive of her two stays at Bridge Place. Bernard Boyne would entrap her—just as he had been entrapped! In his despair he saw himself powerless, either to warn or to assist the girl he so fondly loved! *CHAPTER XXII* *FROM OUT THE PAST* After Boyne, his wife, and Ena Pollen—the trio of death-dealers—received the news of the death of Augusta Morrison, the go-to-meeting insurance agent of Hammersmith had left the flat and gone forth into Upper Brook Street. He had to meet a man in the smoke-room of the Carlton. Suddenly, as he passed beneath a street lamp on his way towards Park Lane, a well-dressed girl accosted him, exclaiming with a strong French accent: "Ah! M’sieur Bennett! At last! I have wanted to see you for—oh! for so long—long time!" Boyne started. The maid, Céline, for it was she, was the very last person in the world that he desired to meet at that moment. All had been successfully conducted concerning Augusta Morrison, but here arose the aftermath of a very ugly affair—the death of old Mr. Martin in Chiswick. At first he pretended not to recognise the girl who had been paid off by Ena, for he hoped to wriggle out of the precarious situation by bluff. "No, no, m’sieur," cried the girl. "Surely you recollect me! I am Céline—who was maid to madame—your friend! You remember poor Mr. Martin—who died so suddenly—eh?" she asked. He tried to extricate himself, but instantly it occurred to him that she was resuming her blackmail, and that if they were to save themselves, she must be paid more money. She knew something concerning old Martin’s sudden end. That was plain. Therefore, she would have to be silenced. In every walk of life to-day the blackmailer of both sexes is to be found in one guise or another. "And are you really Céline?" he laughed, halting beneath the next lamp, for she had joined him and had walked beside him. "I am. Madame lives in the house you have just left. I saw her in Melun a little time ago. She so kindly called upon me." As the girl uttered these words a man joined them, a tall, rather cadaverous-looking stranger in black, evidently a Frenchman. "This is Monsieur Galtier—Henri Galtier," she explained, introducing them. "Ah! I recollect. Madame told me that you are to be married—eh, Céline? I congratulate you," said Boyne in an affable manner. "Pardon my foolishness, but at first I did not recognise you as my friend." The latter word was intentionally diplomatic.