"_Returning very soon, dearest. Remain patient. Tell my sister. Love._—GERRY." Time after time she read it with complete satisfaction, and afterwards she went out to Ealing and showed it to her lover’s sister. "That takes a great weight off my mind, Marigold," said Gerald’s sister. "Still, his sudden disappearance seems very strange. I wonder why he’s gone away—and why he’s in Birmingham?" "Yes," replied the girl. "It does seem curious, but think I know the reason." "What is it?" asked his sister anxiously. "A secret reason," was Marigold’s reply. "I’m sorry that I can’t tell you—not unless he gives me permission." "What—is anything wrong?" asked the young woman. "Oh, nothing wrong with Gerald—not at all. Only he is trying to find out something—that’s all. And until he is successful I don’t think he wants anyone to know his intentions." "Well, I hope he’s made it right at his office. Employers don’t like men who pretend to be ill at home and go away." "No doubt he has. Gerald isn’t a fool," the girl replied, a little piqued at his sister’s words, and very soon afterwards she left for home. The message from Birmingham allayed her anxiety to a very great extent. When once Gerald took up any matter he never left it until it was complete. He was the very essence of business, and his principal held him in high esteem on account of his method and his pertinacity. Marigold knew that. He was following some secret clue concerning the hooded man of Bridge Place, and it seemed as though he feared to put anything concerning it into writing. That night as she lay awake she reflected that the message was indeed very gratifying, yet at the same time, she found herself wondering why he had not written her just a few brief words. She, however, kept her own counsel, feeling confident that Gerald would as soon as possible return to tell her what he had found out. The fact that the store of food in Boyne’s bedroom was still there negatived the idea that it was intended for any person concealed in the locked room above. On thinking it all over, she began to doubt whether that curious cry was really human, or did it only exist in her imagination? Next day she went to the bank as usual, but life was very dreary without Gerald’s smiling face. He was her ideal of the fine courteous man, strong, and devoid of that effeminacy which, alas! too often characterises the temporary officers who so gallantly assisted in winning the war. He had neither pose, drawl, nor affectation, as is so common in and around Fenchurch Street. He dressed quietly, and his manners were gentlemanly without being obtrusive. He spoke little and listened always. In Marigold’s eyes he was the type of a perfect modern gentleman—as indeed he was.