Venetia sniffed. She was just turning to resume her way to the train when she stopped dead like a pointer.
“That’s them,” she said, in a hard, tense whisper.
Jones looked.
A veiled lady accompanied by a bearded man, with a folded umbrella under his arm and following a porter laden with wraps and small luggage, were making their way through the crowd towards the train.
The veil did not hide her from him. He knew at once it was she.
It was then that Venetia’s effect upon him acted as the contents of the white-paper acts when emptied into the tumbler that holds the blue-paper-half of the seidlitz powder.
Venetia saw his face.
“Don’t make a scene,” she cried.
That was the stirring of the spoon.
He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The bearded one turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man; he looked a powerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero he would have played the part to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their “power” and manliness. He had a cigarette between his thick, red, bearded lips.