Boyne grunted, and remarked something beneath his breath—words that the deaf woman, even with her expert lip-reading eyes, could not understand.
Marigold had slipped safely out of the way. The fact filled him with intense chagrin. What did it portend?
"At least Durrant's activity is at an end!" he growled deeply to himself. "Now we have to deal with this girl. For the present nobody can know of the whereabouts of Gerald Durrant. When they do—I hope the peril will be over!"
And he swallowed his coffee with the gusto and satisfaction of a man who had made a most complete coup, and from whose mind some great weight had been lifted.
An hour later he entered the Hammersmith Post Office and telephoned to the Red Widow.
"Any news, Ena?" he asked as he sat in one of the boxes.
"Yes. Augusta spoke to me half an hour ago. I'm going round to Lancaster Gate at eleven. She's taken ill. A pity, isn't it?"
"Sorry to hear that!" he replied in a grim voice. "I'll see you at Pont Street at seven—eh?"
"Yes. I'll run round," Ena answered. "I've just been through to Lilla. I wonder what can be the matter with poor Augusta? A chill, perhaps—eh? Poor lady! But I hope it isn't serious."
"I hope not. Good-bye for the present."