own on Miss Tonk's card the small purple cipher that
stood for hm--hm. "I will make enquiries about her address," she said.

But that was not the last of Tonk. Presently the red face of the
Relieving Officer loomed over the index.

"In the case of Plummett--" he began loudly.

"In the case of Tonk--" interrupted Sarah Brown, to whom, in her present
mood, Plummett could only have been a last straw. She hated the
Relieving Officer unjustly, because he knew she was deaf and raised his
voice, with the best intentions, to such a degree that the case papers
on the index were occasionally blown away. "We have already notified you
three times that Tonk is having a half-pint of milk daily from the
Happy Hearts, as well as an allotment from a soldier."

"We stopped the groceries," roared the Relieving Officer. "But in the
case of Plummett--"

"In the case of Tonk--" persisted Sarah Brown. "She has moved from Mud
Street, can you tell me her last address?"

"She is living in a sort of private charitable institution, somewhere on
the outskirts of the district--Mitten Island, I fancy. I don't know the
exact address, because we have stopped the groceries, she paying no rent
now. In the case of Plummett, I thought you might be interested to know
that she got a month this morning for assaulting the Sanitary
Inspector--pulling his nose, I hear. She told the magistrate it struck
her as being a useless nose if it didn't notice anything wrong with her
drains. The children came into the House this morning."

"What is Tonk's Christian name?" asked Sarah Brown, who had been a
changed woman since Mitten Island was mentioned.

"I forget. Some flower name, I think. Probably Lily or Ivy. In the case
of M'Clubbin, the woman is said to have fallen through a hole in the
floor of the room she and her three children slept in. She was admitted
into the Infirmary last night, and her furniture will be sold to pay her
rent--"

"It begins with P," said Sarah Brown. "P. Tonk, unmarried wife, of
Mitten Island...."

The Relieving Officer went away, for it was dinner-time. Sarah Brown
absently unwrapped the little dinner which she had brought hanging by a
thin string from a strangled finger. Mustard sandwiches with just a
flavouring of ham, and a painfully orthodox 1918-model bun, made of
stubble. Sarah Brown almost always forgot the necessity of food until
she was irrevocably in the 'bus on her way to work. But this morning, as
she had taken her se