"Mrs. Morrison is certainly not quite so well as she was yesterday, but though Doctor Tressider has been twice to-day he has not yet been able to diagnose the complaint." "Is she in pain?" asked Mrs. Pollen sympathetically. "No. She does not complain. But no doubt we shall know more to-morrow." "Very well. Please tell her I inquired, and to-morrow, about eleven, I’ll call and see her again." And, having rung off, she spoke to Lilla, telling her of the conversation. "You’ll go to-morrow and see her, my dear," urged Boyne’s wife. "Bernard is here. I’ll tell him." "What about the girl?" asked Ena. "Oh, for the present she’s all right. She’s gone back to Wimbledon. The telegrams have satisfied her." "Right! Then I’ll see you to-morrow after I’ve been to Lancaster Gate," said the Red Widow, and then they broke off the conversation. "Well, the doctor doesn’t know yet what’s the matter," Lilla afterwards said to Boyne, who was sitting in the handsome drawing-room. "Oh! he will to-morrow—never fear!" was the man’s grim reply. "He must be a duffer if he doesn’t recognise the symptoms. I expected him to know yesterday." "You thought we should have had news on Wednesday, and it’s now Friday." "Yes. But delay is rather a good sign," he said. "Did you tell Ena about the nursing home?" "Yes; I did so yesterday." "I’ve heard that Miss Propert’s, out at Golder’s Green, is quite a good place. Nobody connected with it has any knowledge of us." "I told her that. And she agreed. She is rather afraid that some of Mrs. Morrison’s friends may come up from Brighton, and she is in no way anxious to meet them." "No! She mustn’t do so!" declared Boyne. "She must take good care that no friends are at Lancaster Gate when she calls." "Good! I’ll tell her that over the ’phone presently." "And also tell her not to take a too eager interest in her—I mean, no interest further than that of a comparatively freshly made friend," he said; and afterwards they went out to a theatre together. Next morning, just before eleven, as Ena Pollen was contemplating speaking with Mrs. Morrison’s hotel, the proprietor’s wife rang up. "Mrs. Pollen," she said, "I’m very sorry to give you bad news about your friend. Doctor Tressider has just been here, and says that she is suffering from diphtheria!" "Oh! I’m so sorry!" cried the Red Widow. "How very unfortunate! Are any other friends there?" "No. But I believe somebody is coming up from Brighton this afternoon." "Very well," said Ena. "I’ll take a taxi and come round now." This she did. Pleading that she might become infected, she did not ascend to Mrs. Morrison’s room, but sat in the little office of the proprietor’s wife. "Of course she can’t remain here," said the woman. "It isn’t fair to my other visitors."