Here they took a sandy foot path where scanty patches of coarse grass and clusters of wild pansy marked the borders of the straggling wood. It led to a clearing in the trees and a villa, painted strawberry pink, with a tiled terrace and veranda, wreathed about with Bourgainvillia. McTaggart paused on the threshold and rang a bell, answered quickly by a servant. "Bring me a vermouth--di Torino--and the time-table." He sat down in a wicker chair, his face thoughtful--"and--Stefano!--" he called him back--"Asti for the Principessa. Lunch at twelve-thirty to-day--we shall be five instead of three--you can add an 'omelette au surprise.' And see that the quails aren't overdone." "Very good, sir. There are letters come since the Signore left." He returned with a silver tray on which lay his master's correspondence. McTaggart took them, with a yawn, turning them over indifferently. From somewhere through the drowsy heat came a distant sound of chopping wood and a man's voice raised musically, singing over his morning work. McTaggart drank his glass of vermouth, then choosing an envelope directed in a round hand, broke it open with a smile. It was long since he had heard from Jill. He glanced at the date. The letter had lain at his London rooms and was now sent on to Italy by the faithful Bethune. "Dear Peter," it began. "I wonder where you are now? and if you're _ever_ coming home! It's ages since you last wrote, and I've been meaning to reply--only I've been _so_ worried. You'll understand when I tell you my news--about Mother. She's gone to prison." McTaggart jumped. The very word seemed sinister in the heart of that peaceful drowsy wood, lapped by the indolent Southern sea. "Poor old Jill!" He read on, his face growing steadily graver. "I daresay you saw in the papers of the latest Suffragette attempt!--that bomb in Downing Street, I mean. Well, Mother was in it, with Stephen. And now she's gone to Holloway--isn't it _dreadful_? She's refused bail and declares she means to hunger strike!--I've been nearly off my head about it. "For she'll never stand it--she hasn't the strength. It will simply kill her----" a smudged word suggested to the reader a tear, hastily blotted off the paper. Before McTaggart a vision rose of the grey eyes with their frank gaze, fringed by lashes, dark and curled, and the eager face of his school girl friend. "Mr. Bethune's been awfully kind. He actually arranged for bail, but Mother wouldn't hear of it and there she is--in Holloway Prison. "Roddy's home. He went to the Head and asked leave to come back to me. He's simply furious about it all--wants to have it out with Stephen. Needless to say, _he's_ free! You bet Stephen looks after himself. I suppose he thinks that _one_ martyr (in the Bible, I mean) is good enough!" McTaggart laughed grimly aloud at the typical line as he thought of Jill. He could almost see her saying the words, the delicate nostrils curled with scorn.