re was some of the
condensed milk upon her fingers, and it must be admitted that she sucked
them. They were little, stubby fingers, which somehow looked capable.

"It must have been four o'clock when I had that bun and a cup of tea,"
she remarked, half aloud.

She glanced at the table longingly, for she occasionally found it
necessary to place a certain check upon a healthy appetite. The practice
of such self-denial is unfortunately, not a very unusual thing in the
case of many young women who work hard in the great cities.

"I must wait for Agatha," she said, with a resolute shake of the head.
Crossing the room toward the typewriter table she stopped to glance at a
little framed photograph that stood upon the mantel. It was a portrait
of Gregory Hawtrey taken years before, and she apostrophized it with
quiet scorn.

"Now you're wanted you're naturally away out yonder," she declared
accusingly. "You're like the rest of them--despicable!"

This seemed to relieve her feelings, and she sat down before the
typewriter, which clicked and rattled for several minutes under her
stubby fingers. The clicking ceased with sudden abruptness, and she
prodded the carriage of the machine viciously with a hairpin. As this
appeared unavailing, she used her forefinger, and when at length it slid
along the rod with a clash there was a smear of grimy oil upon her cheek
and her nose. The machine gave no further trouble, and she endeavored to
make up some of the time that she had spent at the concert. It was
necessary that it should be made up, but she was conscious that she was
putting off an evil moment.

At last the door opened, and Agatha Ismay, wrapped in a long cloak, came
in. She permitted Winifred to take her wrap from her, and then sank down
into a chair. There was a strained look in her eyes, and her face was
very weary.

"You're working late again," she observed.

Winifred nodded. "It's the men who loaf, my dear," she replied. "When
you undertake the transcription of an author's scrawl at ninepence the
thousand words you have to work hard, especially when, as it is in this
case, the thing's practically unreadable. Besides, the woman in it makes
me lose my temper. If I'd had a man of the kind described to deal with
I'd have thrashed him."

She was talking at random, partly to conceal her anxiety, and partly
with the charitable purpose of giving her companion time to approach the
subject that must be mentioned; but she rath