just witnessed would bring about
a crisis in her own and her friend's affairs. For all that, she was
unpleasantly conscious of the leak in one shabby boot when she stepped
down from the sidewalk to cross the street, and when she opened her
umbrella beneath a gas lamp she pursed up her mouth. There were holes in
the umbrella near where the ribs ran into the ferrule; she had not
noticed them before. She, however, resolutely plodded on through the
drizzle, until three young fellows who came with linked arms down the
pavement of a quieter street barred her way. One wore his hat on one
side, the one nearest the curb flourished a little cane, and the third
smiled at her fatuously.

"Oh my!" he jeered. "Where's dear Jemima off to in such a hurry?"

Winifred drew herself up. She was little and determined, and, it must be
admitted, not quite unaccustomed to that kind of thing.

"Will you let me pass?" she asked angrily. "There's a policeman at the
next turning."

"There really is," said one of the youths. "The Dook has another
engagement. Dream of me, Olivia!"

A beat of heavy feet drew nearer, and the three roysterers disappeared
in the direction of a flaming music-hall, where the second "house" was
probably beginning. Winifred, who had stepped into the gutter to avoid
the roysterer with the cane, turned as a stalwart, blue-coated figure
moved towards her.

"Thank you, officer," she said, "they've gone."

The policeman merely raised a hand as if in comprehension, and plodded
back to his post. Winifred went on until she let herself into a house in
a quiet street, and ascending to the second floor entered a simply
furnished room, which, however, contained a piano, and a table on which
a typewriter stood amid a litter of papers. The girl took off her
water-proof and sat down in a low chair beside the little fire. She was
not a handsome girl, and it was evident that she did not trouble herself
greatly about her attire. Her face was too thin and her figure too
slight and spare, but there was usually, even when she was anxious, as
she certainly was that night, a shrewdly whimsical twinkle in her eyes,
and though her lips were set, her expression was compassionate.

She was not the person to sit still very long, and in a minute or two
she rose to place a little kettle on the fire. She took a few scones, a
coffee-pot, and a tin of condensed milk from a cupboard. When she had
spread them out upon a table she discovered that the