"Ah! I thought you wouldn’t relish being put into the hands of the police—eh?" laughed Boyne. "Go upstairs." The hooded man turned towards the stairs with a disconsolate sigh, but without further words. He saw that all argument was useless. "Come!" whispered Boyne, whose quick ear had caught a sound in the kitchen below. "Mrs. Felmore is back! By gad! hustle up—quickly." And the man painfully climbed back to his secret hiding-place, the door of which Boyne closed just as Mrs. Felmore arrived at the foot of the stairs in search of her master. "Curse the fellow!" Boyne muttered beneath his breath. "He’s growing defiant, and that means trouble for us—serious trouble!" *CHAPTER XIV* *ON SATURDAY NIGHT* The events of that particular Saturday were of such portent that it is necessary to describe them in some little detail. When the Man from Upstairs had safely escaped from Mrs. Felmore’s observation, and Boyne had expressed regret that her shopping expedition had been fruitless, the honest insurance agent ate the frugal lunch which his housekeeper put before him, and then went out. An hour later he returned with a large parcel, which he smuggled in away from the deaf old woman, and ten minutes later, pretending to have forgotten, he sent her out to buy some postage stamps. So she put on her hat in calm obedience, and once more went forth into King Street. As soon as she had gone, Boyne opened the parcel, which contained a new tin kettle and a quantity of groceries and provisions, and then sprang up the stairs, unlocked the door with his key, and entered the secret abode. He was there for about three-quarters of an hour. He heard Mrs. Felmore come in, but took no heed. If she knew that he was upstairs, she would no doubt believe that he was looking out some of his insurance papers. About half-past three Boyne came forth, and, locking the heavy door, descended to his sitting-room with a satisfied smile upon his smug countenance. What had happened in that locked room evidently pleased him. He went to the nearest telephone call-office, and ten minutes later was speaking with his wife in Pont Street. "You, Lilla?" he asked, recognising her voice. "It’s all right! I shall go to Ena’s at six, and then come on to you. Have you heard anything?" "Yes. She’s come up from Brighton, and not being able to get a room in any of the big hotels, has gone into a private one at Lancaster Gate. Is all correct?" "Yes. See you after I’ve seen Ena," was his reply, and he rang off. Back again he went to Bridge Place, and at half-past five left for Upper Brook Street. He, however, did not pass the inquisitive hall-porter, but entered by the servants’ way, for he was by no means well-dressed. Inside Ena Pollen’s flat, he walked to the drawing-room, where the Red Widow joined him, asking anxiously: "Well, how goes it, my dear Bernard?"