paid on the Friday evening, she held her head very high when
she left the office. If Mr. John Dene required decorum, then he should
have it in plenty from his secretary.

The next morning and the Monday following, Dorothy was very much on her
dignity. She seemed suddenly to have become imbued with all the
qualities of the perfect secretary. No hint of a smile was allowed to
wanton across her features, she was grave, ceremonial, efficient. She
worked harder than ever and, when she had finished the tasks John Dene
set her, she manufactured others so that her time should be fully
occupied.

For a day and a half she laboured to show John Dene that she was
offended; but apparently he was oblivious, not only of having offended
her, but of the fact that she was endeavouring to convey to him the
change that had come about in their relations.

On the Monday evening he did not return to sign his letters until
nearly six. By that time Dorothy was almost desperate in her desire to
show this obtuse man that she was annoyed with him. She felt at the
point of tears when he bade her good night and left the office, just as
Big Ben was booming out the hour.

She would go home and forget all about the stupid creature, Dorothy
decided, as she hastily put on her coat and dug the hat-pins through
her hat. On reaching the street she saw John Dene standing at the
corner of Charles Street. For a moment she thrilled. Was he waiting
for her? No, he was looking in the opposite direction, apparently deep
in thought. She saw a taxi draw up beside him. The driver, a little
man with a grey moustache, Dorothy remembered to have seen him several
times "crawling" about on the look-out for fares. The taxi stopped and
the man bent towards John Dene. Dorothy stood and watched. John Dene
was right in her line of route to the Piccadilly Tube, and she did not
wish him to see her.

For a moment John Dene seemed to hesitate, then with a word to the
driver he opened the door and got in. Suddenly Dorothy remembered
Colonel Walton's warning. Impulsively she started forward, just as the
taxi started and a moment later whizzed swiftly past her. John Dene
was evidently in a hurry. At that moment her attention was distracted
by shouts and a smash. A small run-about car had suddenly dashed
across Regent Street from the west side of Charles Street and crashed
into the forepart of another taxi. A crowd gathered, a policeman
arrived, and she had