"No. He is not missing," was his answer. "The fact that he sent those telegrams is sufficient to show that he is keeping out of the way for some purpose best known to himself. He has, no doubt, some secret from you."
"Secret from me?" she echoed in dismay. "No, we both had a secret."
The inspector only smiled. He, of course, thought she alluded to the fact that they were lovers.
She saw his amusement, and wondered whether she dare be frank and tell him of their suspicions concerning Mr. Boyne. Yet the thought flashed across her mind that the story of his visits to that upstairs room, clothed in that strange garb, would never be credited. The London police hear strange stories from hour to hour, many of them the result of vivid imaginations, of hearsay, or deliberate attempts to incriminate innocent persons. Malice is at the bottom of half the fantastic stories told by women to officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, and Marigold saw that even though she told the truth, it would not be believed. Yet could she eliminate the real reason why her suspicions had first been aroused? She resolved to be frank, therefore after a brief pause, she said:
"The secret shared by Mr. Durrant and myself was concerning a certain man, resident close by here."
"Oh! And what is it?" asked the officer eagerly.
"Well, we have certain suspicions regarding a gentleman named Boyne, who lives in Bridge Place."
"Boyne? Why, not old Bernie Boyne the insurance agent?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Oh—well, he's well known about Hammersmith," was the inspector's discreet reply. "What about him?"