"I can't to-night. I'm going to the theatre with a girl friend."
"To-morrow night, then," he said. "I'll meet you at Piccadilly tube station, say at seven, and we'll dine somewhere—eh?"
Again Marigold hesitated. She was naturally distrustful, yet she argued within herself that perhaps if she accepted his invitation she might learn from him something of interest.
"No," he laughed merrily. "I'm sure you won't refuse me, Marigold. I want to see what I can do for your aunt—because—well, perhaps I may not set up house again. And I don't want to leave her in the lurch, poor deaf old soul."
His solicitude for her aunt touched her, and so she promised to meet him as he suggested.
Then two minutes later he raised his hat and they parted.
As the girl sat with her glass of milk and sandwiches before her in the little teashop, strange thoughts crowded through her mind. The refusal of the police to assist her to find Gerald had hipped her, and ever since the night of the fire she had gone about utterly disconsolate and broken-hearted. The fire was mysterious, coming within an hour or so of her visit to the police. Yes; the more she reflected, the stranger still appeared the whole enigma.
She returned to the bank and sat hour after hour her books, but her only thought was of Gerald the reason of his disappearance.
Next day, just before noon, while she was busy at the bank, one of the male clerks came to her desk, and said:
"Miss Ramsay, you're wanted on the telephone."