Gerald, however, succeeded, with the aid of a friendly English trader, in getting by road from Agadir to Mogador, where he told his strange story to the British vice-consul, who in turn arranged a passage for him on a small steamer homeward bound, and gave him a little money, sufficient to pay his railway fare from Southampton to London. Truly, his had been an astounding adventure, and now he was eagerly looking forward to the happy reunion with the girl he loved so passionately. All his belongings were in the small brown paper parcel on the rack above him. At the station he had bought a packet of cigarettes, and as he smoked he gazed reflectively out of the carriage window. The train was an express, but in his mood it seemed to be the slowest in the world. What would Marigold think of his long absence? He had once or twice thought of telegraphing to her from Mogador, or from Brest, where they had touched, but he had deemed it best to return to her suddenly and then wreak vengeance upon those who had so cleverly plotted to inveigle him to that flat on that never-to-be-forgotten night. Waterloo—the new station with its bustle and hurry! He sprang from the carriage and took the next train back to Wimbledon and then on to Wimbledon Park. At last he halted before the neat little villa with its white painted balcony, and knocked. Marigold’s sister opened the door. "Good heavens!" she gasped. "Mr. Durrant, is it really you?" "It is! I’m back again. Where is Marigold?" "Come in," she said. "I-I-hardly know what to say. Marigold is—she’s not very well." And then in a few brief words as he stood in the narrow hall she told him of his beloved’s sudden illness. A second later he dashed upstairs, and then in silence, treading, noiselessly, he advanced to the bedside of the delirious girl, who with flushed face was calling for "her Gerald." Tenderly he placed his cool hand upon her brow. "But surely she will live!" he cried in blank despair. "The doctor has grave doubts," her sister replied. "She had such deep and constant anxiety regarding your absence, Mr. Durrant, that her constitution has become undermined. And now she has caught this terrible chill which has developed into acute pneumonia." "But people get over pneumonia!" he exclaimed. "Surely Marigold will recover." "The doctor told me this morning that the malady is of the most virulent type. There are few recoveries." "Few recoveries!" he echoed, while at the same time the poor girl was murmuring something incoherent regarding "Gerald." "Yes. He said that if she got well again it could be only by a miracle. The serum might do its work, but—well, Mr. Durrant, I must tell you what he really said—he told me that he regarded the case as hopeless. The crisis will be the day after to-morrow." "The day after to-morrow," he said. "And she will not recognise me till then!"