The shock of that man. Come into this place and have a good cup of strong coffee. I suppose you wouldn’t hear of a nip of brandy.”
The girl shook her head, with a faint smile.
“Coffee be it then,” said Tommy. “I think we can safely risk its being poisoned.”
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