"I was there yesterday--to inquire. They let her out at the end of the week--but she's been awfully ill since. It was pretty nearly touch and go..." There came a sound of splashing water; then McTaggart's voice again: "I'm glad she's home at any rate. What's become of the priceless Stephen?" "Dont's ask me. I bar the chap. D'you remember old Charlie Mason? Well, he managed at last to get a billet with Hensley and Benton, the big wine people. He dropped in to see me, last night, full of trouble. It seems that Somerfield had let him in for a big order for himself and several pals of his. And now they say they can't stump up--it sounds like a regular plant! Awfully hard lines on Charlie--the firm have given him the sack." "You don't say so. Bad luck! I always thought Stephen a wrong 'un. How's Jill herself?" A pause. "Oh--all right," but Bethune frowned. "Jolly plucky about it all. I fancy they're rather in low water. It's between ourselves, you understand. But she's left College for good now and it seems to me she's taken on most of the house work at home. They only keep one servant." "What a shame!" came from McTaggart, busily brushing back his hair. "It's a thousand pities her mother gives up all her time to Suffrage work. She might consider her family. I can't understand the attraction. Seems to me it's like drink--when a woman really takes to it there's no earthly stopping her!" "I quite agree," said Bethune, "I'm sorry for Jill. And the boy, too," he added somewhat hastily. His pale face was slightly flushed. "You ready?" He picked up his hat as his friend reappeared. "It's stopped raining----" he glanced at the window. "We've had an awfully wet season--nothing like it since the Flood. I nearly started a motor boat--cheap trips in Piccadilly!" They clattered downstairs together and out on to the shining pavement. "We'd better take a bus, I suppose," said McTaggart--"how long has this strike been on?" "About a fortnight----" Bethune laughed. "I expect you're glad to get back to England?" But the other answered seriously. "Well--I _am_. It's an odd thing----" he sniffed up the air, damp and smoky, and smiled to himself, his eyes bright. "But there's something about London, you know..." He left the sentence incomplete CHAPTER XXI Jill crept downstairs on tiptoe. Inside the dining-room Roddy was leaning over the table, a sketch-block and paints before him. He looked up as his sister appeared with an anxious, inquiring glance that seemed oddly out of place on his round, boyish face. "Well?" "She's asleep. At last!" Jill sighed--"Lizzie's sitting in the room, so I stole away to you." She flung herself into the armchair and curled her feet up under her, arms clasped behind her head, dark shadows round her eyes. "Tired, old girl?" Roddy's voice was tender. He saw that the long nights of vigil were leaving their mark on the fresh young face that began to look white and strained.