"Where did you have it last?"
"In the booking hall, when I took a ticket from Victoria to Charing Cross."
"Your pocket's been picked," said the waitress with conviction. "There's a warning in all the Tubes."
The comfort was cold, yet comfort it was of a kind. June saw a wan ray of hope. After all, there was a bare possibility that inexorable Fate was not the thief.
"I'd go to Scotland Yard if I were you," said the waitress. "The police often get back stolen property. Last year my sister's house was burgled, and they recovered nearly everything for her."
June began to pull herself together. It was not hope, however, that braced her faculties, but an effort of will. Hope there was none of recovering the purse, but she was now faced by the stern necessity of getting back the picture. In the light of this tragedy it was in most serious peril. Delay might be fatal, if indeed it had not already proved to be so. She must go at once and get possession of the treasure lest it be too late.
The waitress was a good Samaritan. Not only could the bill wait until the next day, but she went even further: "Is your home far from here?" she asked.
"My home—far?" said Jane, dazedly. For the moment she did not understand all that was implied by the question.
"If you live on the District, and you haven't a season, I don't mind lending you a shilling to get you home."
June accepted a shilling with earnest thanks. In the circumstances, it might be worth untold gold: "You can give it me back any time you are passing,"
