The only serious moment was when the Red Widow suddenly remarked: "I don’t half like the situation concerning that young fellow Durrant! Do you know, I feel some strange presage of evil—I mean that we may have made a slip there." "Slip!" laughed Boyne derisively. "Nothing of the kind, my dear Ena! I saw to that all right. And surely you can trust me?" "But suppose we have?" "No need to worry further about him. He won’t trouble us any more." "The next person to be silenced is that girl," Lilla said in a hard voice. "Yes," was Boyne’s slow reply. "I think I’ve formed a plan which will be just as successful as that we carried out concerning her too inquisitive lover." And as he spoke, he blew a cloud of smoke from his lips and watched it curl towards the ceiling. Suddenly—it was then about ten o’clock—almost as the words fell from his lips, the telephone bell rang sharply. All three started. "Ah!" gasped Ena, springing up. "There you are! At last!" "Yes," she replied, taking up the receiver. Then, listening, she exclaimed: "Oh! you, Miss Propert—well? Oh! How dreadful!—how very sad! She passed away ten minutes ago! Thank you so much for telling me. I’m so sorry—so very sorry!" And she replaced the receiver. "You look sorry!" laughed Boyne. "Really, it is most distressing to think that we shall very soon draw ten thousand pounds!" he added mockingly, whereat the two women laughed gaily, for the coup so elaborately prepared had at last been brought off! *CHAPTER XIX* *WHAT HAPPENED TO GERALD* The days passed, and Marigold, hearing nothing further from Gerald, called again at Mincing Lane, and there learned that they had not heard again from young Durrant. A clerk had been sent over to Ealing to inquire about him, but had returned with the information that, instead of being ill, he had not been seen by his sister. "The firm at once suspected something wrong with the books," said the female clerk of whom she made the inquiry, "but Mr. Durrant was such an honest, straightforward young man that we all ridiculed the idea." "Have the books been examined?" asked Marigold breathlessly. "Oh, yes; and nothing has been found wrong." The girl drew a sigh of relief. She then showed the clerk the telegram she had received from Birmingham, and she, in turn, promised to show it to the principal when he came in. Marigold Ramsay walked down Mincing Lane to Fenchurch Street in gloom and despair. She returned to the bank and sat at her books, unable to work, unable to do anything, save to wonder why Gerald had so suddenly left her. Yet he had bidden her not to worry over him and had promised to return. That evening she went over to Hammersmith, and her aunt, noticing how pale and worried she looked, inquired the reason, asking: "Have you heard yet from Mr. Durrant?" "No, auntie. Unfortunately, I haven’t, but I’m expecting to hear every day."