"This is one of my favourite shops," said Miss Paull. "You know it, too? But of course I never buy anything, the things are too dear for my purse. Cannes is like Chester when it comes to antiques—too many tourists."
As she spoke a taxi rattled up the street at a characteristic break-neck speed, stopping abruptly at the shop next door, a dingy jeweller's. From the taxi stepped a woman, young, smartly dressed. She paid the fare, then stood looking somewhat uncertainly at the name on the shop door.
"C'est bien vingt-quatre, madame," said the driver, as if to help her.
"Oui—ça va bien," she replied, but still hesitating.
Esther had turned at sound of her voice just in time to see her gather her silver fox closer about her neck, clutch her red morocco pochette against her chest and enter the shop. The taxi, with a little "cling" of the meter, shot off down the hill. Esther touched her companion's arm.
"That was Lady Clifford who went into that shop," she said.
Miss Paull dropped her tortoiseshell lorgnon.
"Was it? I didn't notice. Where? What shop?"
"This one, just here."
"Really! That's an odd, dirty little place for her to go into!"