She had no idea, however, that at the moment when she was dressing to dine with her aunt’s benefactor, a lady with red-brown hair, having taken tea at the Pavilion Hotel in Folkestone, was in a first-class carriage in a boat express for London, and that that same lady had only arrived in Folkestone a couple of hours before, and on meeting the boat had handed in the message at the office at the harbour. She was at Piccadilly tube station quite early, and it was fully ten minutes before Boyne put in an appearance, smiling and happy. "I’m so glad you’ve been able to come, Miss Marigold," he exclaimed, as he shook hands with her warmly. "Now, we’ll just go and have a little dinner together, and talk about your aunt, eh?" And he placed his hand upon her arm in a paternal manner, and started to cross the road to Coventry Street. "There’s a little Italian place in Wardour Street where they do you excellently. A man I know told me of it the other day, and I dined there a couple of nights ago and found things very good. Not much of a place to look at, but good, well-cooked food. So let’s go there." She walked with him, but unable to contain her joy at receiving that reassuring wire from Gerald. She said, as they walked along Coventry Street: "I’ve had a wire to-night from Mr. Durrant. He’s all right." "Have you really? How excellent!" exclaimed Boyne. "What does he say?" "He wires from Folkestone pier. He’s just arrived back in England, and he says he’s all right. That’s all." "Well, what do you want more? Your boy is back, and no doubt you’ll see him soon. I’ve always had in my mind that his absence has been due to some secret mission given to him by his employer. Those food people in Mincing Lane are profiteering out of all conscience, and Durrant’s absence is only what might well be expected. He will get a big bonus for carrying out some little bit of delicate diplomacy with regard to food supplies from abroad." They turned up Wardour Street, and presently stopped in front of one of the small, unpretentious little foreign restaurants, where one can always rely upon good cooking, even though the quality of the food sometimes leaves a little to be desired. Not more than half a dozen people were in the white-enamelled little place, but the proprietor, a well-dressed, prosperous-looking little Italian, came forward to greet them. "Table for two—oh! yes. You reserved it, sare—I know! This way, please." And he conducted them to a cosy spot in a corner where a table was laid _à deux_. Marigold, flushed with excitement on account of the telegram in her bag, threw off her coat, settled her blouse, and sat down opposite the man, while an elderly waiter was quickly in attendance. "I’ve ordered dinner," said Boyne, rather impetuously. "Antonio will know." And he dismissed him.