As the girl sat with her glass of milk and sandwiches before her in the little teashop, strange thoughts crowded through her mind. The refusal of the police to assist her to find Gerald had hipped her, and ever since the night of the fire she had gone about utterly disconsolate and broken-hearted. The fire was mysterious, coming within an hour or so of her visit to the police. Yes; the more she reflected, the stranger still appeared the whole enigma. She returned to the bank and sat hour after hour her books, but her only thought was of Gerald the reason of his disappearance. Next day, just before noon, while she was busy at the bank, one of the male clerks came to her desk, and said: "Miss Ramsay, you’re wanted on the telephone." "Me!" exclaimed Marigold, much surprised, for none of the staff were allowed to speak on the telephone except upon urgent family affairs. "Was this one?" She hurried to the telephone-box and heard a female voice, which she recognised as that of Gerald’s sister at Ealing. "You there, Marigold. Listen!" she said. "I’ve just had a wire from Gerald. It’s sent from Folkestone Harbour, and says: "’_Back again. Don’t worry. With you soon, but not yet. Marigold knows why. Have wired her._—GERALD.’" "Oh, how lovely!" cried the girl over the ’phone in wild delight. "I expect I’ve got a wire at Wimbledon. I’ll tell you what he says. Such lots of thanks for ringing up. Good-bye. I’ll come over and see you soon, dear. Righto!" And she hung up the receiver, her cheeks flushed with the excitement of the good news. Gerald—her Gerald—had spoken at last! Further adding of figures that day was out of the question. She could not work, but, ever and anon, she raised her eyes to the big clock, the hands of which moved, oh! so slowly. At last five o’clock came, and she put her books away in the trolley ready to be wheeled to the strong room by the uniformed messenger, and putting on her hat and coat hurried away home in the crowded tube. She missed her train, and things seemed to move too slow for her, but on arrival at the station she raced home. Yes, in the narrow hall of the little suburban villa lay a telegram on the hat-stand. She tore it open with frantic haste, and read: "_Do not make inquiry about me. Am quite safe, and am in possession of some very important facts. Just returned from abroad. Be watchful, but do not feel anxious. Am quite all right. Love._—GERALD." It reassured her. She dressed and went out to meet Mr. Boyne, carrying in her handbag the treasured message from Folkestone Pier, together with her powder-puff, her little mirror, and a few hairpins.