“Pavett,” said Derek. He gave the address of his rooms in Jermyn Street.

The clerk nodded, finished writing it down, wished Derek good morning politely, and turned his attention to the next client.

“I want to go to Nice⁠—on the fourteenth. Isn’t there a train called the Blue Train?”

Derek looked round sharply.

Coincidence⁠—a strange coincidence. He remembered his own half-whimsical words to Mirelle. “Portrait of a lady with grey eyes. I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again.” But he had seen her again, and, what was more, she proposed to travel to the Riviera on the same day as he did.