They lingered some time over their coffee, and finally set off at a brisker pace.
“We’ve thrown them off, I think,” said Tommy, looking over his shoulder.
Cyclamen Ltd. was a small establishment in Bond Street, with pale pink taffeta curtains, and one or two jars of face cream and a cake of soap decorating the window.
Cicely March entered, and Tommy followed. The place inside was tiny.
On the left was a glass counter with toilet preparations. Behind this counter was a middle-aged woman with grey hair and an exquisite complexion who acknowledged Cicely March’s entrance with a faint inclination of the head before continuing to talk to the customer she was serving.
This customer was a small dark woman. Her back was to them and they could not see her face. She was speaking in slow difficult English. On the right was a sofa and a couple of chairs with some magazines on a table. Here sat two men—apparently bored husbands waiting for their wives.
Cicely March passed straight on through a door at the end which she held ajar for Tommy to follow her. As he did so, the woman customer exclaimed. “Ah! but I think that is an amigo of mine,” and rushed after them, inserting her foot in the door just in time to prevent its closing. At the same time, the two men rose to their feet. One followed her through the door, the other advanced to the shop attendant and clapped his hand