entered. She had a latchkey which, ordinary possession as it was,
seemed a symbol of her freedom. While he would have granted it
generously, the freedom somehow piqued Rokeby a little. He stood
smiling rather sadly till she shut the door.

A scurrying housemaid paused in her rush upstairs to say:

"Oh, miss! You were rung up on the 'phone just now, and I took the
message. From a Mrs. Kerr, miss, and she would be glad if you could go
round at once."

Julia stood still for a moment or two, keeping her hands very still in
her muff. "I expect ..." she began to think. Then she rushed for the
cab-whistle, which hung in the hall, pulled open the door, and
whistled until a cab came creeping round the corner, feeling in its
blind way for the invisible fare. She ran down the steps, signalling,
and it spurted up.

"Number Thirty Welham Mansions, Hampstead," she said as she jumped in.

It was an extravagant method of travel--being some distance to
Hampstead--for a young woman earning three pounds ten a week and
spending most of it gorgeously, but she did not care. The four
shillings were a nothing compared to Marie's need of her. She passed
the time in speculations of wrathful trend, until they pulled up in
the quiet road from which she had so recently driven away with Desmond
Rokeby.

Marie opened the door to her--Marie with a face like white marble and
burning eyes. Her dead composure was wonderful and scornful, but Julia