"No, he would gnaw through the door to get back to me, and old mother Felmore would find rats in the place. She knows of Nibby, but we don’t want to arouse her curiosity. Women, deaf or not, are always dangerous when one has secrets." "And how is Mrs. Pollen—eh?" "Mrs. Pollen!" echoed Boyne. "Whom do you mean?" "Why, Ena Pollen, the friend of Lilla. You know the woman—tall, handsome, red-haired. She worked a dirty trick upon some man she met. They had supper at the Ritz. He died, and nobody suspected. Ugh! Isn’t it funny how one can lead a crooked life and everyone think one perfectly honest?" "Well, you’re not honest, my dear Lionel," laughed Bernard Boyne. "If it had not been for me I repeat you’d have been hanged for that affair two years ago." The man in the hooded cloak shuddered. "Yes," he replied in a changed voice. "You are right; I owe everything to you, and that’s why I do all you ask of me. They say there is no genius without lunacy. So I suppose you think me a lunatic—eh?" "I don’t think, Lionel—I know you are," Boyne responded. "You’ve acted as a silly fool, and you made a serious slip in killing the girl, but I’m trying to save you from the police. They are still hunting over all Europe for you." "But did I kill her, Wisden? Did I? I don’t remember it!" "Remember it. Why, you’ve got no memory. You only remember all your science and your wonderful knowledge—a knowledge unequalled. Yes! you killed her, and by an ace I rescued you from arrest. You recollect little Maggie?" "Ah! yes. I—I know what you mean!" gasped the other. "Little Maggie! But I didn’t kill her!" "You did. Your damnable criminal instincts led you to kill her, and that’s why Scotland Yard is searching daily for you!" "Maggie! I—I killed Maggie!" "Yes, you did—and you know it, you infernal hypocrite!" cried Boyne. "Now, don’t try to argue. I’m in my right senses. You aren’t! I haven’t time or inclination to have a war of words over it. Besides," he added, glancing at his watch, "Mrs. Felmore will be back at any minute, so you must get upstairs again—and without delay." "But can’t I go home? I—I want to see my garden—the flowers——" "No!" snapped Boyne. "You can’t. You’ll stay here." "Do let me go—_do_," pleaded the other in that curious high-pitched voice. "I do want to see my garden again." "You’ll see the inside of a prison if you are not very careful," Boyne declared in a warning tone. "So don’t think about going home." "But am I never to go home?" "At your own risk. Remember, I’ll take no responsibility. Your description and photograph are in every police-station here and on the Continent, and, as I’ve told you lots of times, the moment you step outside into the street you will court danger. You’ll be arrested by the first policeman who sees you!" "Surely I may go home—if only for a day! You could take me there."