"Not without notice," said the stubborn Million, in a voice that brought the whole of our inconvenient little Putney kitchen before my mental gaze. Verily she had recovered from her bad attack of stage-fright in court just before. "A girl's got to give her month's notice or to give up a month's wages," said my Aunt Anastasia with a curling lip. "That is easily settled. My niece is in no need of a month's wages from some one who is--charged with common theft----" "Why, she's 'charged' herself, as far as that goes!" Million gave back quickly. "If I've taken that old ruby, my maid knows all about it, and she's in it with me! You heard for yourself, Miss Lovelace, what that old Rattenheimer said in there just now. It's her he suspects--your niece! It's her he didn't want to let go, bail or no bail!" What a wrangle! It was a most inappropriate place for a wrangle, I know. But there they still stood and wrangled in the open street outside the police-station, ex-mistress and ex-maid, while passers-by stared curiously at them, and I and the three young men stood by, wondering what in the world would be said next. "A month's wages, too!" repeated my young mistress, with the snorting laugh with which she used to rout the butcher-boys of Putney. "It's a fat lot more than a month's wages that's doo from your niece to me, Miss Lovelace, and so I tell you! Two quarters' salary. That's what I've advanced my maid, so's she could get herself the sort of rig-out that she fancied. First time in her life the girl's been turned out like a young lady." Here Miss Million waved a hand towards my perfectly cut black, taking in every detail from the small hat to the delight-giving silk stockings and suède shoes. "Yes, for all her aristocratic relations they never done that for her--why, you know what a pretty girl you said she was, Vi"--turning upon London's Love, who nodded appreciatively. "Well, you wouldn't ha' known her if you'd seen her in any old duds like she used to have to wear when she was only 'my niece'"--here a vindictive and quite good imitation of my Aunt Anastasia's voice. "Now there's some shape in her"--this is good, from Million, who's picked up everything about clothes from me!--"and who's she got to thank for it? Me, and my good wages," concluded my mistress, with unction. "Me, and my thirty pounds that I advanced her in the first week. She can't go----" "I don't want to!" I put in, but Miss Million grimaced me into silence. She meant to have her say, her own, long-deferred say, out. "She can't go without she pays up what's owing to me first," declared my mistress triumphantly. "So what's she going to do?" This certainly was a "poser" to poor Aunt Anastasia. Full well I knew that she had not thirty pounds in the world that she could produce at a moment's or even at a month's notice.