“I don’t know why I should be slandering my father or gossiping when I should have no other thought than of my boy. Did she tell you whether she named it?” “It was neither named nor registered,” was Leslie’s reply. “From that point of view the child has no existence, and that is why he is going to be so very difficult to trace.” The pen quivered between her white teeth; she stared out of the window. “I wonder----” she said softly. “What do you wonder?” “If the other two pieces in this jig-saw puzzle are going to be so easy to fit. And I wonder other things, Peter Dawlish. Where is the screw I can turn on Anita Bellini? Give me that letter you had.” He took it from his pocket and she read it. “Who sent you this?” “There was no name attached.” She looked at the envelope and the postmark. “This was sent by one who wishes to do either Jane or the princess a pretty bad turn,” she said. “Now if I could only trace the sender----” She lifted the letter to her nose and sniffed daintily. “A clever detective would be able to tell in an instant if this perfume was chenel No. 6 or chypre. I, being an ignoramus, only know that Greta Gurden’s bedroom reeked with it!” CHAPTER XVIII. ANITA’S FRIGHT At that moment Greta Gurden’s bedroom reeked with the pungent scent of frying sausages that wafted in from the little gas-ring in her “dining hall.” When Greta was her own provider, she was economical to the point of stinginess. She, who would hesitate languidly between sole Mariner and sole à la bonne femme, who chose the most delicate and expensive of ices, and who had a pretty knowledge of the virtues of relative vintages, when she had an escort to foot the bill, could find, in the intimacy of her flat, the ingredients of complete satisfaction hanging from a hook at the local butcher’s. She had been allowed to get up that afternoon and found that she could drag herself from room to room without pain or inconvenience. Mrs. Hobbs had gone home, having a husband of her own to serve, and Greta was left alone, and was glad. Face-saving is a practice which is not wholly Chinese. When she prepared her mean little snacks she liked to be by herself, for she was one of those who desire to be thought well of by the least accountable of people. She was almost cheerful as she speared the sausages from their sizzling bed and laid them on a hot plate, brewed the tea from a kettle placed before the gas stove, and, spreading a cloth across half the table, prepared to enjoy her evening repast. She had not heard from Anita since the woman’s visit, and she had spent the greater part of the day regretting the spirit of malice which had induced her to send an eight-year-old sheet of paper to Peter Dawlish. Fortunately, Anita would never know; that was the one solace she had. What would Anita say if she discovered? Greta shuddered to think.