“Well then, there are a couple of actresses—Gillie Blossom—you know her, of course—and Chick Fiennes” (she pronounced it Feens) “—she’s at the Duke’s Cabaret show now, I think.” “What’s she like?” “Very small—petite, she calls herself—strong American accent.” “No good,” exclaimed Inez impatiently. “Isn’t there one with dark hair—must be attractive, voice and all.” Neither of the girls noticed that the small door at the back of the shop had opened and that a woman dressed in black, her large chest draped with a string of huge artificial pearls, was listening to them. The proprietess’ face was hard now, but years ago it must have been beautiful. “Nobody dark except Gillie,” said Mignonette. “She’s no good—Ry would know her,” said Inez. “Well, the only other good-looker I can think of is . . .” “Miss Vassel!” Both girls started and turned towards the figure in the doorway. “What do you mean by revealing the names of customers? It is absolutely forbidden.” Turning to Inez: “I don’t know who you are, Madam, or what you want, but will you please leave my shop.” A glance showed Inez that neither argument nor appeal would be the slightest use here. She shrugged her shoulders and turned to the door. As she did so, she shot a glance at Mignonette and saw that unrepentant young woman jerk her head as if to indicate “round the corner.” At the same time she spread out the fingers of one hand. Outside, Inez glanced at her watch; it was ten minutes to five—the girl’s meaning was obvious. Turning in the direction that Mignonette’s nodded head indicated, Inez walked up the passage into King Street and there waited, looking at the bills outside the St. James’s Theatre. She had not long to wait; at five minutes past five Mignonette appeared, in a neat mackintosh and small black hat. “I always come out for a cup of tea at five,” she said. “We don’t close till eight, so as to catch the swells going to their clubs. The old woman’s in a tearing hair.” “Come and have some tea with me,” said Inez. In five minutes they were in Rumpelmayer’s, with an array of marvellous cakes before them. “There is one other,” resumed Mignonette, “but she’s not dark. She’s jolly good-looking though—scrumptious figure. Matter of fact I believe she lives somewhere near me—I’ve got a dig in the Fulham Road and I’ve seen her walking along it several times in the morning when I start for work. She’s generally rather quietly dressed then—looks as if she might be in a job herself—but I’ve seen her on Sunday mornings too in a car, looking pretty posh—same chap with her each time—nice-looking chap, too.” “What sort of a car?” asked Inez eagerly. “Don’t know, I’m afraid. I’m not up in them. But it’s a two-seater of sorts, one that shuts up if you like.” “But who is she?” “Funny thing is I don’t know her name. Whenever she’s been to us, she’s paid for the stuff and taken it away.” “But could you show her to me?”