It was nearly eight o'clock before she was awakened again by sharp knocking on her door; and on opening it, found the landlady' standing there, examining a letter with great attention. (It had already been held up to the light against the kitchen window.)

"For one of your folks, isn't it, Mrs.--er--" Gertie took it. It was written on excellent paper, and directed in a man's handwriting to Mr.

Gregory:

"Thank you, Mrs.--er--" said Gertie.

Then she went back into her room, put the letter carefully away in the drawer of the table and set about her household business.

About eleven o'clock she stepped out for a little refreshment. She had, of course, a small private exchequer of her own, amounting usually to only a few pence, of which the Major knew nothing. This did not strike her as at all unfair; she only wondered gently sometimes at masculine innocence in not recognizing that such an arrangement was perfectly certain. She got into conversation with some elder ladies, who also had stepped out for refreshment, and had occasion, at a certain point, to lay her wedding-ring on the bar-counter for exhibition. So it was not until a little after twelve that she remembered the time and fled. She was not expecting her men home to dinner; in fact, she had wrapped up provisions for them in fragments of the Major's _Sporting Times_ before they had left; but it was safer to be at home. One never knew.

As she came into the room, for an instant her heart leaped into her mouth, but it was only Frank.

"Whatever's the matter?" she said.

"Turned off," said Frank shortly. He was sitting gloomily at the table with his hands in his pockets.

"Turned off?"

He nodded.

"What's up?"

"'Tecs," said Frank.

Gertie's mouth opened a little.

"One of them saw me going in and wired for instructions. He had seen the case in the police-news and thought I answered to the description. Then he came back at eleven and told the governor."

"And--"

"Yes."

There was a pause.

"And George?"

"Oh! he's all right," said Frank a little bitterly. "There's nothing against him. Got any dinner, Gertie? I can't pay for it ... oh, yes, I can; here's half a day." (He chucked ninepence upon the table; the sixpence rolled off again, but he made no movement to pick it up.)

Gertie looked at him a moment.

"Well--" she began emphatically, then she stooped to pick up the sixpence.

Frank sighed.

"Oh! don't begin all that--there's a good girl. I've said it all myself--quite adequately, I a.s.sure you."

Gertie's mouth opened again. She laid the sixpence on the table.

"I mean, there's nothing to be said," explained Frank. "The point is--what's to be done?"

Gertie had no suggestions. She began to sc.r.a.pe out the frying-pan in which the herrings had been cooked last night.

"There's a letter for you," she said suddenly.

Frank sat up.

"Where?"

"In the drawer there--by your hand. Frankie...."

Frank tore at the handle and it came off. He uttered a short exclamation. Then, with infinite craft he fitted the handle in again, wrapped in yet one more sc.r.a.p of the _Sporting Times_, and drew out the drawer. His face fell abruptly as he saw the handwriting.

"That can wait," he muttered, and chucked the letter face downwards on to the table.

"Frankie," said the girl again, still intent on her frying-pan.

"Well?"

"It's all my fault," she said in a low voice.

"Your fault! How do you make that out?"

"If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have taken the tin from George, and...."

"Oh, Lord!" said Frank, "if we once begin on that!... And if it hadn't been for George, he wouldn't have taken the tin; and if it hadn't been for Maggie Cooper, there wouldn't have been the tin; and if it hadn't been for Maggie's father's sister, she wouldn't have gone out with it.

It's all Maggie's father's sister's fault, my dear! It's nothing to do with you."

The words were brisk enough, but the manner was very heavy. It was like repeating a lesson learned in childhood.

"That's all right," began Gertie again, "but--"

"My dear girl, I shall be annoyed if you go back to all that. Why can't you let it alone? The point is, What's to happen? I can't go on sponging on you and the Major."

Gertie flushed under her tan.

"If you ever leave us," she said, "I'll--"

"Well?"

"I'll ... I'll never leave George."

Frank was puzzled for a moment. It seemed a _non sequitur_.

"Do you mean--"

"I've got me eyes," said Gertie emphatically, "and I know what you're thinking, though you don't say much. And I've been thinking, too."

Frank felt a faint warmth rise in his own heart. "You mean you've been thinking over what I said the other day?"