'But what has he done?' asked Victoria with an effort.
'Lord, Miss, you're from the country, I can see,' said the short man amiably. 'I thought everybody knew that little game. Take you over to Vichy, you know. Make you dance and sing. Provide costumes.' He winked at his companion.
'Costumes,' said Victoria, 'what do you mean?'
'Costumes don't mean much, Miss, over there,' said the tall man. 'Fact is you'd have to wear what they like and sing what they like when you pass the plate round among the customers.'
Something seemed to freeze in Victoria.
'He said it was a theatre of varieties,' she gasped.
'Quite true,' said the tall man with returning cynicism. 'A theatre right enough, but you'd have supplied the variety to the customers.'
Victoria clenched her hands on the handle of her parasol. Then she turned to fly.
The short man stopped her and demanded her address, informing her that she was to attend at Marlborough Street next day at eleven thirty.
'Case mayn't be called before twelve,' he added. 'Sorry to trouble you, Miss. You won't hear any more about it unless it's a case for the Sessions.'