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As they reached the street, a taxi came sailing up to them. Tommy, on the point of hailing it, changed his mind. ‘Are you a good walker, Miss March?’ he asked seriously.

‘Yes, why? Hadn’t we better take that taxi? It will be quicker.’

‘Perhaps you did not notice. That taxi driver has just refused a fare a little lower down the street. He was waiting for us. Your enemies are on the look-out. If you feel equal to it, it would be better for us to walk to Bond Street. In the crowded streets they will not be able to attempt much against us.’

‘Very well,’ said the girl, rather doubtfully.

They walked westwards. The streets, as Tommy had said, were crowded, and progress was slow. Tommy kept a sharp look out. Occasionally he drew the girl to one side with a quick gesture, though she herself had seen nothing suspicious.

Suddenly glancing at her, he was seized with compunction.

‘I say, you look awfully done up. 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 amico of mine,’ and rushed after them, inserting her foot in the door just in time to prevent its closing. At the same time the two men rose to their feet. One followed her through the door, the other advanced to the shop attendant and clapped his hand over her mouth to drown the scream rising to her lips.

In the meantime, things were happening rather quickly beyond the swing door. As Tommy passed through a cloth was flung over his head, and a sickly odour assailed his nostrils. Almost as soon however, it was jerked off again, and a woman’s scream rang out.

Tommy blinked a little and coughed as he took in the scene in front of him. On his right was the mysterious stranger of a few hours ago, and busily fitting handcuffs upon him was one of the bored men from the shop parlour. Just in front of him was Cicely March wrestling vainly to free herself, whilst the woman customer from the shop held her firmly pinioned. As the latter turned her head, and the veil she wore unfastened itself and fell off, the well-known features of Tuppence were revealed.

‘Well done, Tuppence,’ said Tommy, moving forward. ‘Let me give you a hand. I shouldn’t struggle if I were you, Miss O’Hara–or do you prefer to be called Miss March?’

‘This is Inspector Grace, Tommy,’ said Tuppence. ‘As soon as I read the note you left I rang up Scotland Yard, and Inspector Grace and another man met me outside here.’

‘Very glad to get hold of this gentleman,’ said the Inspector, indicating his prisoner. ‘He’s wanted badly. But we’ve never had cause to suspect this place–thought it was a genuine beauty shop.’

‘You see,’ explained Tommy gently, ‘we do have to be so very careful! Why should anyone want the Ambassador’s bag for an hour or so? I put the question the other way round.