She saw his amusement, and wondered whether she dare be frank and tell him of their suspicions concerning Mr. Boyne. Yet the thought flashed across her mind that the story of his visits to that upstairs room, clothed in that strange garb, would never be credited. The London police hear strange stories from hour to hour, many of them the result of vivid imaginations, of hearsay, or deliberate attempts to incriminate innocent persons. Malice is at the bottom of half the fantastic stories told by women to officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, and Marigold saw that even though she told the truth, it would not be believed. Yet could she eliminate the real reason why her suspicions had first been aroused? She resolved to be frank, therefore after a brief pause, she said: "The secret shared by Mr. Durrant and myself was concerning a certain man, resident close by here." "Oh! And what is it?" asked the officer eagerly. "Well, we have certain suspicions regarding a gentleman named Boyne, who lives in Bridge Place." "Boyne? Why, not old Bernie Boyne the insurance agent?" "Yes. Do you know him?" "Oh—well, he’s well known about Hammersmith," was the inspector’s discreet reply. "What about him?" "There is something about him that is mysterious," declared the girl. "Very mysterious." "And what’s that?" "Well, Mr. Durrant was helping me to watch his movements when he suddenly disappeared!" "Ah! That’s interesting. Did Boyne know you were watching?" "No. He had no suspicion. We watched him go to two houses, one in Pont Street, and the other in Upper Brook Street," Marigold said. "At night he dresses smartly and goes into the West End." "A good many men do that, miss. By day they earn their money honestly by hard work, and at night fritter it away up West. I don’t really see what there is in that. Isn’t there anything else you know?" Marigold hesitated. She feared to tell him of the strange disguise. "Well, my aunt is Mr. Boyne’s housekeeper, and I know that a room at the top of the house is kept locked." "A good many upstairs rooms are kept locked. There’s nothing much in that, I think." "But I heard noises inside—a human cry!" The inspector looked at her with disbelief written upon his rosy countenance. "Are you quite sure of that, Miss—er—Miss Ramsay?" he asked seriously. "Yes. I heard it," was her firm reply. "Ah! Then, because of that you and Mr. Durrant believed that Boyne has somebody in hiding upstairs. Is that so?" She replied in the affirmative. "And you don’t think Boyne discovered that you were watching him? If he did, I think he would have resented it very much, for I’ve met Boyne once or twice. Indeed, I passed him in King Street an hour ago." "You passed him! Perhaps he’s back then. My aunt hasn’t seen him for three days."