A dozen times that night she re-read the mysterious, but unconvincing, message. She was a girl of high intelligence, or she would not have been employed by the bank. The whole affair puzzled her, as it would indeed have puzzled anybody.
Next day after her luncheon she went round again to Mincing Lane, and made inquiry regarding the missing man.
The same girl told her that the principal had received a mysterious wire from Paris.
"I saw the telegram," she said. "It was from Paris, and was quite abrupt, saying that he would probably return in a week or so."
"But what does it all mean?" asked the distressed girl.
"I really don't know," replied the other girl. "Mr. Durrant's gone away, and that's all!"
That night Marigold went over to Ealing, and to Gerald's sister she showed the telegram. It puzzled her sorely.
"Whatever can Gerald be doing in Paris?" she exclaimed. "Why could he not write to us, eh?"
"I don't know," was the reply of the unnerved girl. "I think he ought to send us some address."
"But he may do so later," replied his sister. "Gerald is a man of business. He would realise how troubled we all are."