Just for a moment a shiver passed over him; in some ways he was superstitious. He had said, half-laughingly, that this woman might bring him bad luck. Suppose⁠—suppose that should prove to be true. From the doorway he looked back at her as she stood talking to the clerk. For once his memory had not played him false. A lady⁠—a lady in every sense of the word. Not very young, not singularly beautiful. But with something⁠—grey eyes that might perhaps see too much. He knew as he went out of the door that in some way he was afraid of this woman. He had a sense of fatality.

He went back to his rooms in Jermyn Street and summoned his man.

“Take this cheque, Pavett, cash it first thing in the morning, and go round to Cook in Piccadilly. They will have some tickets there booked in your name, pay for them, and bring them back.”

“Very good, sir.”

Pavett withdrew.