"That’s a beautiful portrait," he remarked to the girl. "Yes, sir. Mistress had it done about three months ago. It’s very good of her." Charles Emery bit his lip and managed to stifle the ejaculation which rose to his lips. The truth was out! It was Ena Pollen whom he had seen at Mrs. Braybourne’s window, and Ena Pollen had, he saw, posed for insurance purposes as Mrs. Augusta Morrison—the rich widow of Carsphairn. For a moment the discovery dumbfounded him. He scribbled a few lines. Then he tore them up, and, making excuse for troubling the maid, he rose and said he would call next day. Then he pressed into her hand a ten-shilling note. But just before he took his leave, he turned to her in the hall, and asked suddenly: "Oh, by the way, has Mrs. Morrison been here to visit your mistress lately?" "Not lately, sir," she answered. "Poor lady, she’s dead, so I hear." "Did she often visit your mistress?" "Yes, sir. The last time she was here was at a dinner party with Mr. and Mrs. Braybourne." "Oh! Then Mrs. Braybourne is a friend of your mistress, is she? I know her quite well. She lives in Pont Street, eh?" "Yes, sir; she’s a very great friend," was the girl’s reply. "So is Mr. Braybourne." "And who is Mr. Braybourne?" "Why, Mrs. Braybourne’s husband, of course." As Emery descended the stairs to the street he wondered who could be "Mr. Braybourne"—if Mrs. Braybourne was a widow, as alleged. At the end of the street he hailed a taxi and returned at once to the head office of the insurance company, where he revealed certain other suspicions which had arisen in his mind after his interview with Mrs. Braybourne. *CHAPTER XXX* *THROUGH THE DARKNESS* Events happened apace. The criminal dovecot in Pont Street was now seriously disturbed. Even Boyne, usually so calm and unruffled in face of any peril or difficulty, saw that matters had grown very serious. He was in complete ignorance of the return of Gerald Durrant. Nor did he know that at Wimbledon Park the doctor, on calling again late that afternoon, had pronounced that the serum was doing its work, and that Marigold was decidedly better. It had been just a toss-up. According to his judgment, the serum injected to fight the germs of disease had been administered a few hours too late. The human machine is, however, a curious thing, and the throw of the dice with Death is always weighted upon the side of the living. Gerald, pale, anxious, and emaciated after all the hardships he had gone through, sat by the bedside of his well-beloved, watching her eagerly. To his delight, she was slowly recovering. It is one of the features of the malady from which Marigold was suffering—thanks to the brutal plot to kill her—that after a certain fixed period, death supervenes or recovery comes very quickly.