The night of Augusta’s death had been fraught with sufficient perils in all conscience. He recollected the unexpected appearance of Céline and her companion, of how he had defied them, and how, later that night, a caller had come to Pont Street—a caller who could not be refused admission—the man who had for so long been in hiding in that upstairs room which had now been totally wiped out by the flames. "I shall have to reappear at home to-morrow full of surprise," he muttered to himself, as at last he let himself into the house in Pont Street, the door of which Lilla had left purposely unbolted. Next day about noon, carrying a suit-case and dressed as he usually was when going about his duties in Hammersmith, he arrived in Bridge Place utterly amazed at finding his house wrecked and ruined. A constable was on duty—a man who knew him. "Well, sir," exclaimed the man in uniform, "this is pretty bad, ain’t it? The fire broke out late last night, but it’s fortunate the two women got out in time." "What?" gasped Boyne, apparently staggered at the sight. "What’s happened? I’ve been away in Liverpool, and have only just got back!" "Well, that deaf old woman will be glad you’re back, sir. She’s been round to the police-station telling ’em that you were away." "Where is she?" "In the house over there," and he pointed to it. "You said there was another woman in the house. Who was she?" "A girl. The old woman’s niece, I’ve heard. She’s all right, and went away early this morning." "Oh, yes, I know her. Came to keep the old woman company while I was away, I expect," he said. "But how fortunate they were saved! How did it happen? Does anyone know?" "The superintendent of the brigade was here about two hours ago, and they examined the ruins. They think that the fire must have broken out in the top room upstairs. I went over it with them. We found a lot of fused glass, which rather puzzled them." "Oh, yes. A lot of bottles I kept upstairs. I suppose they melted in the heat," Boyne replied. "Did they find anything else?" "No, nothing of any importance." "Then they don’t know how it broke out?" "No; except that there must have been something up there very inflammable, they say, for the fire spread so quickly." "Perhaps it was a bottle of benzine I had up there for cleaning my clothes," said Boyne. "But, any case, it’s rough luck on me—for I’m not insured." "Sorry to hear that, sir," replied the constable. "They said, you being an insurance agent, you would be certain to be covered against loss." "No. It’s the old story over again," Boyne said, with a grin, "’the shoemaker’s child is the worst shod.’ I was a fool not to insure against fire—an infernal fool! But it can’t be helped. It’s ruined me!" and he turned away and crossed the road to the house which the constable had indicated as the one where old Mrs. Felmore had sought shelter.