"And that must be done at once," the handsome woman repeated. "While she is alive she will be a constant menace to us." Next morning, when he left Pont Street, he went to the City, and, knowing that Marigold always went out at a quarter to one to her lunch, he waited outside the bank. At last she came, a neatly-dressed and dainty figure of the true type of business girl, and at the corner of Fenchurch Street he met her as though by accident, and raised his hat. "Why, Mr. Boyne!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Yes. This is an unexpected meeting, Miss Marigold! I haven’t seen you since the fire," he said. "How lucky that you and your aunt escaped! I can’t think how it was caused, except that your aunt perhaps dropped a match upstairs before going to bed." "No, Mr. Boyne," she said. "It’s a mystery. I’m glad, however, that auntie is recovering from the shock." "Have you heard anything lately of Mr.—what is his name?—Durrant, isn’t it?" "Not a word. I can’t think what has become of him. They’ve heard nothing at his office since his last telegram." "Oh! I shouldn’t worry. He told you in his message not to worry, you know," he said cheerfully. Marigold distrusted the man, yet she remembered how she and Gerald had resolved, at all hazards, to penetrate the mystery surrounding him. She could not deny that he had always been polite and generous towards her, and her aunt would never have a more kind and considerate master. "Come and have some lunch with me," he suggested suddenly, as he glanced at his watch. "I’m just going to have mine. And I want to talk over your aunt’s future—what she is to do while my house is being rebuilt." Marigold hesitated a few seconds. Then she replied: "I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Boyne, but my assistant is away ill, and we’re most awfully busy in the bank to-day. I am only out for ten minutes this morning, I usually have half an hour." "Then come somewhere and have dinner with me to-night." "I can’t to-night. I’m going to the theatre with a girl friend." "To-morrow night, then," he said. "I’ll meet you at Piccadilly tube station, say at seven, and we’ll dine somewhere—eh?" Again Marigold hesitated. She was naturally distrustful, yet she argued within herself that perhaps if she accepted his invitation she might learn from him something of interest. "No," he laughed merrily. "I’m sure you won’t refuse me, Marigold. I want to see what I can do for your aunt—because—well, perhaps I may not set up house again. And I don’t want to leave her in the lurch, poor deaf old soul." His solicitude for her aunt touched her, and so she promised to meet him as he suggested. Then two minutes later he raised his hat and they parted.