“In fact, you want to see me,” said Leslie. “I’ll come along.” It required some persuasion to induce Lucretia to wait for the arrival of Mr. Coldwell. “Very well, then,” said Leslie patiently. “Wait in the street. You’ll catch your death of cold, but I don’t suppose that will worry you very much. You might even hobnob with a policeman. I trust you.” “I should jolly well say you did!” said the indignant Lucretia. She compromised by sitting on the baggage in the passage, the door being propped open with a weight. She found it a little more drafty than the street. Greta’s boats seemed a little more burned than she could have desired when she surveyed the desolation just before Leslie’s arrival. She had little stamina for quarrelling, and already her mind was a confusion of fear and penitence when Mrs. Hobbs, who had returned for her evening duties, showed the girl into the dining room. “It’s awfully good of you to come.” Greta was her conventional self; grabbed the girl’s hand in both of hers; used that old and artless trick of looking up pleadingly into her visitor’s face. “I’m so worried, my dear. The truth is, I’ve quarrelled with Anita. Definitely and finally,” she said, recovering a little of her lost ground. “The paper is dead, as you’ve probably heard--you know everything at Scotland Yard. That means I’m out of a job, though I can get one to-morrow by asking. Anita has behaved abominably. I should never have dreamed, after all I’ve been to her, the thought and care and experience I have devoted to her, as it were---- Do take your hat and coat off. Shall I ask the maid to make you a cup of tea?” Leslie, secretly amused, shook her head. She guessed that the woman had changed her mind since she first sent for her. It was hardly likely that she would trouble to telephone about one of those quarrels which, if her information was accurate, were not an infrequent occurrence between Greta Gurden and the princess. “Of course, I’ve nothing to tell you that would harm Anita.” Mrs. Gurden planted one foot firmly on shore, and prepared, figuratively, to splash the waves of her venom with the other. “But she’s so peculiar--and such a temper! I shouldn’t be surprised if she goes off in a fit of apoplexy one of these days.” “What is her trouble now?” Greta could tell her this much, she decided, without disloyalty to her late employer. The very thought that she was “late” filled her with dismay.