All that the poor fellow had been through—the tortures and horrors of that bondage in which everyone believed him to be mentally irresponsible—were as nothing. He loved Marigold Ramsay with the whole strength of his gallant manhood. His soul was hers. They were soul-mates, and yet she was slowly slipping away from him just at the moment of his return and his intended triumph. Her sister led him downstairs. In the modest, well-kept little dining-room below they had a further conversation. "She was, of course, from time to time reassured by your telegrams. By them she knew that you were alive. And they renewed her hope that you would return." "Telegrams!" echoed the man, who looked more like an unkempt tramp than a business man. "I sent no telegrams! What do you mean, Mrs. Baynard?" "Why, the messages you sent. She has them all in her handbag." "But I was unable to communicate with her. I was declared to be mad, and was sent upon a sea voyage for the benefit of my health. I now know that it was for the benefit of Bernard Boyne!" "I’ll get her bag and show you. Marigold has kept them all," her sister said, and she left the room for a few moments, returning with the dying girl’s black silk vanity bag, from which she drew several telegrams carefully folded. These he opened and examined, standing aghast as he read them. "Why! I never sent a single one of them!" he said. "They’re all forgeries!" "What?" cried Marigold’s sister and Hetty in one breath—for her sister-in-law had entered the room and greeted the man who had returned. "I tell you I never sent any message to her," he said. "Somebody has done this. Who?" "Who can it be?" asked Hetty. "I think I know," replied Gerald in a hard voice. "If I am not mistaken my enemies have been revenged upon me." "Enemies! What enemies?" asked Marigold’s sister. "Surely you have no enemies. I’m sure Marigold hasn’t." "Wait and we shall discover the truth," said the young man. "Marigold must get well. I have certain questions to put to her. She can tell us much that is still mysterious concerning Mr. Boyne." Hetty looked him full in the face and said: "Jack, my husband, was over at Hammersmith two days ago. The place is all boarded up." "What place?" "Mr. Boyne’s house in Bridge Place. There’s been a fire there, and all the upper part has been burned out. Marigold was staying with her aunt that night, and they both escaped just in the nick of time." "Repeat that," he said, half dazed. Hetty repeated what she had said. "Ah! So the place has been burnt up, has it? That’s more than curious, isn’t it?" "Why?" "Because of the mystery surrounding that man Boyne," he said. "Marigold ten days ago said that she didn’t believe that Mr. Boyne was as honest and sincere as people believed, but really, I have never taken any notice of her suspicions. We all of us suspect one of our friends."