Mary peeped round the door. She had been lucky enough to find the doctor in. She disappeared again, and they talked about themselves. The girl was a Miss Ensor. She lived by herself in a room in Lawrence Street. She could help him. Without her, he would fail. The woman herself saw that, and wished it. Why should she hesitate? It was not as if she had only herself to consider. The fate—the happiness of millions was at stake. He looked to her for aid—for guidance. It must have been intended. All roads had led to it. Her going to the house. She remembered now, it was the first door at which she had knocked. Her footsteps had surely been directed. Her meeting with Mrs. Phillips in Madge’s rooms; and that invitation to dinner, coinciding with that crisis in his life. It was she who had persuaded him to accept. But for her he would have doubted, wavered, let his opportunities slip by. He had confessed it to her.!

Mrs. Phillips signed amid splutterings and blots. Joan added her signature as witness. They looked at one another, and then beyond the sheltering evergreens and the wide lawns to where the great square house seemed to be listening.

Miss Ensor, having finished her supper, sat smoking. “No,” she answered with a smile. “But it will hurt me if you fail. Remember that.” The nurse raised the lid. “What a fool I’ve been,” she said. “I never thought of that.”