"I can do nothing just yet, except to receive reports from you," replied Gerald. "You can visit Boyne’s house and let me know from time to time what is in progress there." "But the prisoner upstairs?" she asked. "How can I know more?" "By watching," was his reply. "Do you know, Marigold, I’ve been thinking—thinking deeply over the affair. We are both agreed that we intend to fathom the secret of this man. Well, now could you not one evening, when you visit your aunt, be taken suddenly very unwell, and then remain there in the house and watch?" "Really, Gerald, that’s a splendid idea!" exclaimed the girl. "Yet it seems an imposition upon Mr. Boyne." "I know that. He poses as a man without anything whatever save the commission he collects upon the premiums on the lives of the honest inhabitants of Hammersmith. Yet, as we know, he is in touch with certain people of a much higher class than himself. The house in Pont Street is a great enigma to me. We must elucidate the mystery. That is my object." "I am ready to work at your orders, Gerald," was the girl’s reply, with the genuine love-look in her eyes. "Yes, we will do our utmost to solve this mystery!" In consequence of this conversation, a few days later Marigold went one afternoon to visit her aunt, old Mrs. Felmore, and in the evening was taken very unwell. Mr. Boyne, who returned as usual about six o’clock, was told of the girl’s illness and went down to the kitchen, where he saw her, and, speaking kindly, asked if he should fetch the doctor. "No, thank you, Mr. Boyne," the girl answered, rather weakly. "It’s awfully good of you, but no doubt I shall be better presently, and able to go home. I have a curious dizziness. It came on quite suddenly." "Are you subject to it?" he inquired. And then in the next breath asked if he could get her anything. "My aunt has given me a cup of tea," was her reply. "And I already feel better." "Don’t think of going to Wimbledon to-night unless you feel better," he urged. "Mrs. Felmore can make you up a bed in the spare room." She thanked him, and though she assured him she would be well enough to go home in an hour or so, she had no intention of returning home that night. Boyne, on his part, looked weary and worn. His clothes were shabby, and his cheap boots were down at heel and dusty after a long day’s tramp in the meaner streets of Hammersmith. Returning to his sitting-room, he took his bulky insurance books from his pocket. Then he threw off his jacket, sat down to tea in his shirt sleeves, and fed "Nibby," his pet rat. Mrs. Felmore, like many deaf folk, could tell what was said by watching people’s lips. When her employer had left the kitchen, she remarked to her niece: "Isn’t Mr. Boyne a dear nice man? Whenever I feel unwell he is always so ready to get me anything. You know how bad I was with my rheumatism last winter? He wouldn’t let me work, but engaged old Mrs. Kirk from the Mall."