“I won’t!” It required a tremendous amount of courage to utter those two words of defiance, but it was zero hour to Greta Gurden, and for the moment she had all the ferocity of a mad sheep. “I simply won’t! If I’ve got to earn my own living, I’ll earn it. I can get a job on _Fleet Fashions_. I was offered one last week. I’m tired of your domination and your bullying, and--well, I simply won’t go to Wimbledon, and that’s a fact!” Here was a resistance which Anita Bellini had never anticipated. There was not the stuff of sweet reasonableness in her. She had made her way in the world by the force of her character, and her simulations had been confined to hiding her too-frequent fits of anger. It was not in her to persuade; she must command or do nothing. “You’re going to make me look foolish. I’ve promised----” “I don’t care what I make you look.” Greta’s head was quivering with determination. “It’s not my fault. And whom have you promised?” Without waiting for a reply, she said: “You know how I loathe that house at Wimbledon and those awfully creepy Japanese men of yours.” “Javanese. They’re quite nice people. If you refer to your encyclopædia you will discover they are inoffensive, peace loving, and domestic.” But sarcasm was wasted on Greta. “That may be or may not be,” she said. “All I know is that I’m not coming with you.” “Stay and be--stay till to-morrow!” exclaimed the elder woman. “I shan’t waste my time or go down on my hands and knees to you. You owe me a lot, Greta----” “You owe me a month’s salary,” said the spirited Greta, with admirable courage, “and three months’ notice.” Her hands trembling with rage, Anita tore open her bag and flung a packet of one-pound notes on the table. Without another word she strode out of the room and shut the door so violently that the whole house shook. Greta Gurden sat bolt upright, shivering with triumph, yet with a sinking sense of terror at what the morrow would bring forth. She had charred her boats but she had not burned them. Her shaking hand grabbed the telephone. “Put me on to Scotland Yard,” she said. She heard the weary sigh of the operator. “Is Scotland Yard blessed with a number?” she asked. Greta hung up the phone and looked round in search of the directory. But apparently Scotland Yard had no number, nor did there seem to be such a place on the face of the earth. She was to learn later that the official designation was New Scotland Yard, but she did not dream of looking under the “N’s.” And then she remembered Leslie Maughan, and the “M’s” yielded a good result. She waited for a while after she had given the number, and then: “Yes. I want to speak to you.” “Yes, Mrs. Gurden.” Greta started. “How did you know?” She heard a laugh. “I always remember voices, especially nice voices like yours,” said the mendacious young lady from Scotland Yard. “I want to see you very much--very badly, I mean--tremendously.”