“She will come back in a moment or two,” I said to myself wearily, and sat waiting. For a little while she stood with her long dress gathered up under her cloak: then she darted round the corner and vanished. If she had not appeared again almost at once, I should have had to tell the driver to follow, though I hated the thought of going again into the street where Maxine de Renzie lived. But she did come, and in her hand was a pretty little brocade bag embroidered with gold or silver that sparkled even in the faint light.
“I saw this lying in the street, and ran to pick it up,” she exclaimed.
“You might better have left it,” I said stiffly. “Perhaps Mademoiselle de Renzie dropped it.”
“No, I don’t think so. It wasn’t in front of her house.”
“It may belong to that man who was watching, then.”
“It doesn’t look much like a thing that a man would carry about with him, does it?”
“No,” I admitted, indifferently. “Now we will go home.”
“Don’t you want to wait and see how long Ivor Dundas stops?”
“Indeed I don’t!” I cried. “I don’t want to know any more about him.” And for the moment I almost believed that what I said was true.
“Very well,” said Lisa, “perhaps we do know enough to prove to us both that I haven’t anything to reproach myself with. And the less you think about him after this, the better.”