“Perhaps both the man and woman came there for the purpose either of robbery—or—”
“No. They were probably suspicious of your father’s manner, and came to examine the house.”
“But if they did not trust my father surely they would not be in active association with him, as you say they are,” the girl argued.
“True. But they might, nevertheless, have had their curiosity aroused.”
“And by so doing they may have seen us,” she declared apprehensively. “I hope not.”
“And even if they did, they surely would not recognise us again,” he exclaimed. “But,” he added, “no time must be lost. You must take another brief holiday from the theatre, and see what we can do.”
“Very well,” was the dancer’s reply. “I’ll see Mr Pettigrew to-morrow, and get a rest. It will give my understudy a chance.”
Over a fortnight went by.
It was half-past five o’clock on a cold January evening when a trainful of merry-faced girl munition workers stood at the Central Station at G— ready to start out to Rivertown to work on the night shift in those huge roaring factories where the big shells were being made.
Each girl wore a serviceable raincoat and close-fitting little hat, each carried a small leather attaché-case with her comb, mirror, and other little feminine toilet requisites, and each wore upon her blouse the brass triangle which denoted that she was a worker on munitions.