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 assure 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 scrape 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 scrap 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...."