As she ate her three large, indigestible sausages, she decided to tackle that night the last bundle of letters which needed reading and classifying. It was therefore not an inappropriate moment for Anita to call. Mrs. Gurden stood up like a soldier when the woman swung into the room and pulled the door close behind her. “Your leg’s all right, is it? Good! I want you to come over to Wimbledon to-night.” “My dear Anita, I couldn’t possibly come to-night,” broke in Mrs. Gurden, a picture of sweetness and delight at seeing this unwelcome visitor. “The doctor says----” “I don’t care what the doctor says,” replied Anita brusquely. “You’ve got to come over to May Towers.” Greta murmured something half-heartedly, and made a final fight. “It may be fatal,” she said in a hushed voice. “The doctor----” Princess Bellini said something very uncomplimentary about doctors in general, and glanced at the remnants of the humble meal with a sneer which she did not attempt to conceal. “Pack all your things, everything you want for a long stay,” she said. “I’ll send one of my people up to help you if you like, but it would be better if your own woman--Snobbs or Hobbs or whatever you call her--helped you.” “How long do you want me to stay?” asked Greta in consternation. She counted the most unhappy days and nights of her life those she had spent as Anita’s guest. “A month; six weeks possibly--I’m not sure,” said the woman brusquely. “I’m going to pay you very well indeed. As for your leg, I’ve telephoned to your doctor and he tells me that you’re fit to move, and in fact the wound is healed.” “But the paper----” “The paper is dead. I’ve written to the printers telling them so. My lawyer will liquidate the business, so that’s off your mind. You’ve got to do something, Greta. Your source of income from that direction has dried up.” Greta listened in dismay, and offered the weak comment that it “seemed a pity.” And then, with a resolution which was born of her very feebleness, she said: “I can’t go. I simply won’t go, Anita, until I’ve seen the doctor. You’re most inconsiderate! I haven’t recovered. It isn’t only the wound, it’s the shock of--Druze’s death. I simply won’t risk my life. After all, I have to take care of myself. Gurden doesn’t care a darn whether I’m alive or dead.” Anita sat squarely before her, her big hands on her knees, her eyeglass fixed in her impassive face. “Gurden!” she rasped. “You almost make this ghost of yours real! You’ve got to the end of your argument, Greta, when you call on the precious name of Gurden. He belongs to the same order as Mrs. ’Arris.” “It’s not true, it’s not true!” protested the haggard woman tearfully. “We’re married but we’re separated.” Nevertheless, she proceeded to give no further details that would elucidate that mystery of her life.