City life, with its morning rush to business from the suburbs and its evening scramble for a seat in ’bus, train or tram, is to the business girl a wearing existence. The tubes, with their queux, the trains with their packed compartments, the ’buses with their boorish attendants, and the trams crowded to suffocation with either rain-wet or perspiring humanity, are part of the life of a London business girl. Yet she is always merry and bright, for she takes things as they come and thrives upon a gobbled breakfast or a belated home-coming. Marigold Ramsay was typical of the London female bank clerk—eager, reliable, assiduous at her work, which consisted of poring over big ledgers all day beneath a green-shaded electric light until the figures—units, tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, and hundreds of thousands—danced before her tired eyes ere she closed her book and put on her hat to return home. On the night following the receipt of that gratifying message, she rushed back to Wimbledon wondering if any further telegram awaited her. But there was none. In disappointment she sat down to her evening meal, the one problem in her mind being the whereabouts of the young man who was her lover and who had so mysteriously left her side and disappeared. He could not be following Boyne, for the latter was living quite calmly his usual uneventful life, therefore, if he were not following him, why could he not write to her and explain? That point sorely perplexed her. Meanwhile Ena Pollen telephoned twice a day to Golder’s Green to inquire how her friend Mrs. Morrison progressed, and on each occasion the matron would answer her, but the news was of increasing gravity. She sent kind messages, but the matron expressed regret that the patient was too ill to be given them. On the evening when Marigold had sped back to Wimbledon hoping for a further telegram, Miss Propert had, after telling the Red Widow how critical was Mrs. Morrison’s condition, added that some relatives had come up from Brighton. "Unfortunately, the doctor will not allow anyone to see her," she went on. "Only this evening I have had a telegram from her sister in Scotland saying she is on her way to London, but as she gives no address, I am unable to stop her, so her journey will be useless." "Useless? Why?" asked Ena. "Well—I’m sorry to tell you that the doctor who saw her an hour ago holds out but little hope of her recovery. She has diphtheria in its most virulent form." "Oh! How terrible!" cried Ena. "But is it really so very serious?" "Yes. There is no use disguising the fact. It is a most critical case." "But, surely, there is no immediate danger?" she asked, full of concern. "The critical period will be within the next twenty-four hours," came the reply. "If she gets over to-morrow night, she will probably recover." Ena Pollen held her breath, while her brows narrowed, and she made a strange grimace.