McTaggart walked to St. John's Wood station absorbed in thought, his face grave.
For the memory of his little friend with the tired circles round her eyes haunted each step of the lonely road, shadowed by its belt of trees.
He saw that Jill was worn out with nursing and anxiety, that the long nights of vigil were bought at the expense of her nerves. He guessed, moreover, the strained resources of the shabby house he had left. He would have given much for the right to ease the position with a cheque!
But this was plainly impossible. He smiled to himself at the bare idea, striding along oblivious of the heavy thunder drops that fell.
At last a scheme presented itself. When he reached the Underground, after a moment's hesitation, he took a ticket for Kensington and, in due course, with tw
