“The fourteenth. What is the best train?”
“Well, of course, the best train is what they call ‘The Blue Train.’ You avoid the tiresome Customs business at Calais.”
Derek nodded. He knew all this, none better.
“The fourteenth,” murmured the clerk; “that is rather soon. The Blue Train is nearly always all booked up.”
“See if there is a berth left,” said Derek. “If there is not—” He left the sentence unfinished, with a curious smile on his face.
The clerk disappeared for a few minutes, and presently returned. “That is all right, sir; still three berths left. I will book you one of them. What name?”
“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.
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