"No," he said. "Some of these houses are the legations of the smaller States of Europe. Over there is the Serbian Legation." "Well, we’ll wait in patience," she said. "Fortunately it’s a fine night." "The last time I watched, last week, it came on terribly wet about eleven o’clock," he said, "and I hadn’t my mackintosh. When I started out it seemed a perfect night. But just now the weather is so changeable." On the darker side of the street by the railings, the young people idled together, with a watchful eye upon the long flight of steps which Boyne had ascended. Though the blinds were drawn, it was evident that the comfortable West End house was well lighted, and it was, no doubt, the residence of someone of considerable means. Indeed, it requires a good income to run a house even in Pont Street in these post-bellum days. The traffic had died down. Few taxis were passing, for as yet the home-coming pleasure seekers were not on their way from the theatres. For half an hour the pair waited in the shadow, full of eager curiosity. The movements of the mystery-man of Hammersmith were, to say the least, suspicious. Suddenly, from the basement a young footman appeared, and hurrying along to the end of the road, hailed a taxi and brought it to the door. Then, as they watched, they saw, a few seconds later, the front door open, and a man in evening dress descended the steps and entered the taxi. The light from the open door shone upon his face as he halted to speak to the servant, and then, to their amazement, they recognised the man to be Bernard Boyne. His chameleon-like change staggered them both for a second, but Gerald, ever quick to act, whispered: "Go home, Marigold. This is very funny. I’ll try to follow," and a moment later he had sped away noiselessly into the darkness. The fact was that his quick eyes had espied a taxi which at that moment had driven up on a stand a little farther down, and without delay he told the man that he wanted him to follow the taxi in front, and that he would give him treble fare for doing so. "Right y’are, sir!" replied the young Cockney driver, who instantly entered into the spirit of the chase, and already his cab was on the move as Boyne left. Gerald saw Marigold standing watching the departure, and knowing that she would make the best of her way to Wimbledon, kept his eyes upon the taxi, which was soon out into Knightsbridge, going in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. Why Boyne, the humble collector of insurance premiums, should possess a latchkey to a house in Pont Street, and emerge from there dressed in evening clothes as a gentleman of means, sorely puzzled Gerald Durrant. He felt instinctively that he was on the track of some very remarkable sequence of events. This man who disguised himself every night before he took food and drink up to his imprisoned friend, evidently lived a double life. In Pont Street he was a rich man, while in Hammersmith he was poor.