"Of course not," Ena agreed. "She must go at once to a nursing home. A friend of mine had diphtheria about a year ago, and went to a place somewhere at Golder’s Green. I think Prosser or Potter was the name of the person who runs it. We might perhaps find it in the telephone directory. I think that was the name—but I’m not quite sure. Poor Augusta! I’m so sorry, but I really think it would be unwise of me to go in and see her—don’t you?" "I quite agree," replied the proprietor’s wife, and, taking down the telephone directory, she began to search for the name, but could not find it. At last, after some minutes, she exclaimed: "Ah! Here it is. Miss Propert’s nursing home. Yes, Golder’s Green! Here is the number. I’ll telephone and ask if they have a room vacant." Five minutes later it was fixed. Miss Propert had promised to send an ambulance at once, and soon afterwards the Red Widow was round at Pont Street reporting to Lilla all that had taken place, while early that same afternoon the patient had already been transferred to the nursing home, where she had been promised by the unsuspecting matron "every attention." As the days passed Marigold Ramsay travelled each morning from Wimbledon Park to the City, and sat each luncheon hour in the same little restaurant, but alone. She was sorely puzzled why Gerald did not write to her. Without doubt he had gone somewhere to follow up a clue concerning the mystery man of Hammersmith, but she felt hurt that he had not written to tell her of his whereabouts. Time after time she took out his telegram, which she carried in her big bag-purse, and re-read it: "_Am all right, dear. Do not worry. Have discovered something, but am not returning for a day or two._—GERRY." The "day or two" had elapsed. He told her not to worry, therefore she tried to obey him. Still, it was strange that he did not send her a line. Twice she called at his office in Mincing Lane, but she was told by a female clerk that Mr. Durrant had not returned. Nothing more had been heard of him, except that he was away at home ill. Marigold smiled within herself at the excuse her lover had given for his absence, and wondered hour by hour what he had discovered concerning Mr. Boyne. She went over to Hammersmith and had tea with her aunt. From her she learned that her employer had been at home each night. The only night he had been absent was the night of Gerald’s disappearance. She even contrived to get a glimpse of the interior of that cupboard in Mr. Boyne’s bedroom, but the groceries intended for the poor widow of Notting Hill Gate were still there intact, as well as the tea-kettle and the bowl. What had taken Gerald away? For three days her anxiety increased, when on the fourth evening, on her return to Wimbledon, she found a telegram from him. It had been dispatched from the post-office in Bristol Road, Birmingham, and read: