"Ena must not return to Upper Brook Street, for Emery is certain to go there," Lilla said. "Curse the fellow!" cried the Red Widow. "It’s all my fault! I ought to have exercised more care, but Bernie has always been so cocksure that everything was plain sailing." "No," he protested. "Surely I can’t be accused of your indiscretions, Ena. I’ve done my best—just as we all have done—but we’ve fortunately received warning in time that the game is at an end—at least, for a little while. We can resume it in France, or probably in America later on. All that remains now is for us to swiftly and quietly fade out and leave them all guessing." "One good feature is that the girl Ramsay will not be able to tell them anything," said Lilla. "I’ve always doubted her from the first. She’s a cunning little cat." "Yes. The end ought to be to-day—or to-morrow at latest," Boyne said. "And by that time we shall all three be well on our way abroad." Then they began to discuss ways and means, the destination of each of them, and the matter of money, there being three deposits in different London banks in different names. The Red Widow and her companions had long ago taken every ingenious precaution in case of enforced flight at a moment’s notice. There were, indeed, three separate sets of baggage lying at the waiting-room of Victoria Station. But the banks were closed and no money could be obtained. In the meantime the young Manchester solicitor, much puzzled, of course, had taken a taxi and alighted in Upper Brook Street. Of the hall-porter he made inquiry regarding Mrs. Pollen, and was taken up in the lift. At the door of the flat he rang, and a smart maid answered. "I want to see Mrs. Pollen," he said with his best smile. "Mrs. Pollen isn’t at home, sir," the girl replied. "Dear me!" he said, deeply disappointed. "I’ve come up from the country specially to see her. When will she be back?" "I don’t know. Perhaps not till the evening, sir." Emery paused. He was arriving at an estimate of the maid’s loyalty to her mistress. "Well," he said, "my business is most important—upon money matters. May I come in and write her a note?" "Madam has forbidden me to allow anyone inside during her absence," replied the good-looking, dark-eyed girl. "Of course, she fears thieves. But I’m a solicitor," and he showed her his card. "Please don’t think I’m a thief—eh?" and he laughed merrily. The girl looked at the card and then allowed him in, showing him into the dining-room, upon the table of which was a great bowl of La France roses—the room in which his client, Mrs. Augusta Morrison, had been entrapped and done to death so insidiously. "There’s paper there, I think, sir," she said, indicating a small writing-table set near the window. He seated himself, though his quick eyes took in all the surroundings. Before he began to write, he saw in a broad silver frame before him a large photograph of his client, Mrs. Morrison.