"Perhaps we do—and perhaps we do not. It all depends upon your attitude—and madame’s!" he replied, with mock politeness. "The mystery of the death of Monsieur Martin requires elucidating, and Céline can do that—when it becomes necessary." "I don’t understand you," Boyne said. "What about the old man’s death?" "Now, that’s quite enough!" cried Galtier, in impatient anger. "It’s no use you, of all men, pleading ignorance, Mr. Bennett. Céline has already had a little present from madame to keep a still tongue, and——" "And you want a bit more, eh?" asked Boyne bluntly. "No. That’s just where you are mistaken, my friend!" was the Frenchman’s reply. "Monsieur Martin died in mysterious circumstances, of which both madame and yourself are well aware, and it is but right that the police should know the truth, _otherwise we may have other people dying in a similar manner_!" Those last words of his caused Boyne to wince. For what reason, if not with the object of blackmail, had Henri Galtier and Céline Ténot come to London and tracked them down? He knew that Ena had been indiscreet in her conversation after old Martin’s death, but he had believed that her visit to Melun and the payment to the girl had put matters quite right. It seemed to him, however, that Céline was entirely under the influence of that municipal employé from Chantilly, whose attitude was decidedly hostile. "Well," Boyne asked of the man, "if you don’t want money, what in the devil’s name do you want?" "I want to prevent you from playing any more of your hellish tricks upon innocent people. That’s what I want!" was the Frenchman’s hard reply, in a tone which left no doubt as to his firm intentions. *CHAPTER XXIII* *THE CRY IN THE NIGHT* Marigold, hoping against hope, went each day from Wimbledon to the bank, where she sat adding and subtracting figures—always wondering. Each morning, after a hurried breakfast, she dashed to the station and hung upon a swaying strap till she got to the City. Each evening she repeated the same experience home. Gerald was missing. No further word had come nom him. She waited as each day passed—waited eagerly, but he gave no sign. Each day she went to eat her frugal meal at the same little place, but his familiar figure never appeared in the doorway, as she knew it so well. His sister had heard nothing, and at Mincing Lane they were beginning to think that he had simply left his post without notice, perhaps in order to better himself. For Marigold the days passed wearily enough. Where was he? True, he had sent her reassuring telegrams, but even they had ceased! He had given no address, therefore she was unable to reply. She was, of course, in utter ignorance that her lover was on the high seas bound for the Far East, and that the reassuring telegrams she had received were forgeries.