And, thus dismissed, Gerald Durrant descended the stairs with heavy heart and hopeless foreboding, and walking out, made his way back to Wimbledon Park, where Marigold lay dying. *CHAPTER XXVIII* *AT THE WINDOW* On that same afternoon the Red Widow was seated with Boyne in Lilla’s pretty drawing-room in Pont Street. She had come there hurriedly in response to a telephone message from Boyne’s wife, and they were now holding a council of war to decide upon their actions in future. "The only danger that can possibly threaten us is that infernal French girl and her lover," Boyne assured them, as he leaned back lazily in a silken easy chair, and puffed at his cigarette. He was smartly dressed with a white slip in his waistcoat, fawn spats, and patent leather shoes. "At the present moment they hold their tongues in the hope of squeezing more money from us. Meanwhile we shall collect the sum assured upon dear Augusta, and quietly leave England for a little while. A pity the sum is not larger," he added. "I was only thinking the same the other day," said Ena. "But how about that girl Ramsay?" "Oh, the end ought to be to-day, or at least to-morrow. I’ve made secret inquiries in Wimbledon Park, and I hear that the doctor gave her up a day or so ago," he said grimly. "That will be another distinct peril removed," remarked Lilla. "It serves the girl right for being too inquisitive." "And the man Durrant cannot be back yet, eh?" asked Ena. "No," was Boyne’s reply. "I see by the papers that the ship has arrived at Cape Town. Even if he escaped there, and found his way back, he could not arrive in London for another three weeks or more. So when he does return—if he ever does—he will find Marigold silent in her grave, that a disaster has occurred in Bridge Place, and that we are no longer in London." "And Lionel?" asked the Red Widow. "Oh, we have nothing to fear from him. He’s only a gibbering idiot who believes my story that he committed a crime—killed a little girl named Maggie—although he was quite innocent. I made him wear a hood whenever he saw me, and I did the same. He believed me to be a man named Wisden, the witness of his crime! And because of that he executed in blind obedience every order I gave him. The fact that for months he never saw my face impressed him, and thus the terror of the police has so got upon his unstrung nerves that he is fast going from bad to worse. As a bacteriologist he is, of course, wonderful. He was marked out as a coming man by the professors at the Laboratory at Oxford, before he took to drugs and his brain gave way." "Where is he now?" asked Ena. Boyne explained the man’s hiding-place, adding: "I’ve given him money to go on with. When that is finished—well, we will consider what we shall do." "We shall want him again, no doubt," laughed Ena.