genial saunterer of
a moment ago, poked wildly through the railings. Bill, panic-stricken
now and wishing for nothing better than to be back in his cosy cage,
shrieked loudly for help. And Freddie Rooke, running round the corner
with Jill, stopped dead and turned pale.

"Good God!" said Freddie.

II

In pursuance of his overnight promise to Derek, Freddie Rooke had got
in touch with Jill through the medium of the telephone immediately
after breakfast, and had arranged to call at Ovingdon Square in the
afternoon. Arrived there, he found Jill with a telegram in her hand.
Her Uncle Christopher, who had been enjoying a breath of sea-air down
at Brighton, was returning by an afternoon train, and Jill had
suggested that Freddie should accompany her to Victoria, pick up Uncle
Chris, and escort him home. Freddie, whose idea had been a
_tete-a-tete_ involving a brotherly lecture on impetuosity, had
demurred but had given way in the end; and they had set out to walk to
Victoria together. Their way had lain through Daubeny Street, and they
turned the corner just as the brutal onslaught on the innocent Henry
had occurred. Bill's shrieks, which were of an appalling timbre,
brought them to a halt.

"What is it?" cried Jill.

"It sounds like a murder!"

"Nonsense!"

"I don't know, you know. This is the sort of street chappies are
murdering people in all the time."

They caught sight of the group in front of them, and were reassured.
Nobody could possibly be looking so aloof and distrait as Erb if there
were a murder going on.

"It's a bird!"

"It's a jolly old parrot. See it? Just inside the railings."

A red-hot wave of rage swept over Jill. Whatever her defects--and
already this story has shown her far from perfect--she had the
excellent quality of loving animals and blazing into fury when she saw
them ill-treated. At least three draymen were going about London with
burning ears as the result of what she had said to them on discovering
them abusing their patient horses. Zoologically, Bill the parrot was
not an animal, but he counted as one with Jill, and she sped down
Daubeny Street to his rescue--Freddie, spatted and hatted and
trousered as became the man of fashion, following disconsolately,
ruefully aware that he did not look his best sprinting like that. But
Jill was cutting out a warm pace, and he held his hat on with one
neatly-gloved hand and did what he could to keep up.

Jill reached the scene of battle,