"That's it," said Jill steadily. "I won't forget. Thank you, Peter."
CHAPTER XXII
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 two changes, alighted at the High Street station. Here, with an anxious glance at the clock, he turned to the left and, winding about, arrived at last at a large block of flats in a quiet street.
He studied the list of names in the hall, entered the lift and was carried up to the fourth floor and Flat G, where he rang the bell, feeling a shade nervous.
Miss Elizabeth Uniacke was "at home." He handed the maid his card—a neat elderly woman in an old-fashioned cap and apron—and followed her into a small drawing-room, crowded with little tables and chairs and occupied by a large black cat, asleep on a cushion, and a grey parrot.