Toward afternoon the fog would roll up from the city, dense and yellow. Footsteps on the Terrace would come suddenly out of nowhere; their makers were shadows. Nan, rising uneasily, would go to the window; they might be footsteps of pursuers or of bringers of bad tidings. Even Grace's policeman filled her with panic when he paused for an instant outside the house. His tread was the tread of Justice, ponderous and unescapable. With the return of the children her oppression lifted. Later Billy's key would grate in the latch. She was in the hall to meet him before he had crossed the threshold. “Any news?” The servants must not hear her; she spoke beneath her breath. “Nothing. Nothing yet.” The children no longer called to one another as they went about their play. They tiptoed and looked up anxiously when addressed. No urging was necessary to send them to bed--bed was escape to a less ominous world. Muffled, muffled! Everything was cloaked and muffled. As Peter put two and two together, pain grew into his eyes; even when others seemed to have forgotten, the expression in his eyes was judging. Only Romance was unaffected by the sense of foreboding. The servants felt it and discussed it in the kitchen, wondering whether the master was losing money. But Romance, with cat-like self-satisfaction, went on bearing kittens and so did her daughter, Sir Walter Scott, who came by her name through an accident regarding her sex. A month had gone by. “Should I write to Jehane?” she asked her husband. “I wouldn't. If you do, we shall have Ocky back on our hands. Perhaps he may pull things together now that he knows that he stands by himself. If he does, it'll make a man of him. Anyhow, if she finds out and needs our help, she'll send for us.” But the silence proved too much for Nan. One morning, on the spur of the impulse, she packed a bag, left a note for her husband and set off for Sandport. On the journey through sodden country and mud-splashed towns, she fought for courage, straining out into eternity to pluck the hem of God's mantle which, when her faith had touched, was continually withdrawn beyond reach of her hand. She had rung the bell and stood waiting on the steps of Madeira Lodge. No one answered. She thought she heard the pit-a-pat of feet on the other side of the door. She rang again and took a pace back to glance up at the front of the house. As she did so, she saw a curtain move before a window--move almost imperceptibly. A minute later the door was flung open by Jehane; Nan saw the children grouped behind her in the passage. “Well?” The tone of her voice was flat and unfriendly. “I thought I'd come and see you, Janey. Only made up my mind this morning.” “Did you? What made you do that?” Nan flushed and her voice faltered. She had not expected this hardness and defiance. She had come full of pity. “I came because I was nervous. You hadn't written for more than a month. I hope---- I hope,----”