The waitress was full of sympathy. “Your bill is only sixpence. Come in and pay to-morrow.”
Through her tears June thanked her.
“’Tisn’t my bill, although it’s very kind of you. There was something very important in my purse.”
“Where did you have it last?”
“In the booking hall, when I took a ticket from Victoria to Charing Cross.”
“Your pocket’s been picked,” said the waitress with conviction. “There’s a warning in all the Tubes.”
The comfort was cold, yet comfort it was of a kind. June saw a wan ray of hope. After all, there was a bare possibility that inexorable Fate was not the thief.
“I’d go to Scotland Yard if I were you,” said the waitress. “The police often get back stolen property. Last year my sister’s house was burgled, and they recovered nearly everything for her.”
June began to pull herself together. It was not hope, however, that braced her faculties, but an effort of will. Hope there was none of recovering the purse, but she was now faced by the stern necessity of getting back the picture. In the light of this tragedy it was in most serious peril. Delay might be fatal, if indeed it had not already proved to be so. She must go at once and get possession of the treasure lest it be too late.
The waitress was a good Samaritan. Not only could the bill wait until the next day, but she went even further: “Is your home far from here?” she asked.