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“It was a shattering business, wasn’t it?” said Egg. “Old Mr. Babbington was rather a pet, too.”
“Quite a period piece, I should imagine,” said Mrs. Dacres.
“You’d met him before somewhere, hadn’t you?”
“That dear old dug-out? Had I? I don’t remember.”
“I think I remember his saying so,” said Egg. “Not in Cornwall, though. I think it was at a place called Gilling.”
“Was it?” Mrs. Dacres’s eyes were vague. “No, Marcelle—Petite Scandale is what I want—the Jenny model—and after that blue Patou.”
“Wasn’t it extraordinary,” said Egg, “about Sir Bartholomew being poisoned?”
“My dear, it was too penetrating for words! It’s done me a world of good. All sorts of dreadful women come and order frocks from me just for the sensation. Now this Patou model would be perfect for you. Look at that perfectly useless and ridiculous frill—it makes the whole thing adorable. Young without being tiresome. Yes, poor Sir Bartholomew’s death has been rather a godsend to me. There’s just an off chance, you see, that I might have murdered him. I’ve rather played up to that. Extraordinary fat women come and positively goggle at me. Too penetrating. And then, you see—”
But she was interrupted by the advent of a monumental American, evidently a valued client.
While the American was unburdening herself of her requirements, which sounded comprehensive and expensive, Egg managed to make an unobtrusive exit, telling the young lady who had succeeded Mrs. Dacres that she would think it over before making a final choice.
As she emerged into Bruton Street, Egg glanced at her watch. It was twenty minutes to one. Before very long she might be able to put her second plan into operation.
She walked as far as Berkeley Square, and then slowly back again. At one o’clock she had her nose glued to a window displaying Chinese objets d’art.
Miss Doris Sims came rapidly out into Bruton Street and turned in the direction of Berkeley Square. Just before she got there a voice spoke at her elbow.
“Excuse me,” said Egg, “but can I speak to you a minute?”
The girl turned, surprised.
“You’re one of the mannequins at Ambrosine’s, aren’t you? I noticed you this morning. I hope you won’t be frightfully offended if I say I think you’ve got simply the most perfect figure I’ve ever seen.”
Doris Sims was not offended. She was merely slightly confused.
“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure, madam,” she said.
“You look frightfully good-natured, too,” said Egg. “That’s why I’m going to ask you a favour. Will you have lunch with me at the Berkeley or the Ritz and let me tell you about it?”
After a moment’s hesitation Doris Sims agreed. She was curious and she liked good food.
Once established at a table and lunch ordered, Egg plunged into explanations.
“I hope you’ll keep this to yourself,” she said. “You see, I’ve got a job—writing up various professions for women. I want you to tell me all about the dressmaking business.”
Doris looked slightly disappointed, but she complied amiably enough, giving bald statements as to hours, rates of pay, conveniences and inconveniences of her employment. Egg entered particulars in a little notebook.
“It’s awfully kind of you,” she said. “I’m very stupid at this. It’s quite new to me. You see I’m frightfully badly off, and this little bit of journalistic work will make all the difference.”
She went on confidentially.
“It was rather nerve on my part, walking into Ambrosine’s and pretending I could buy lots of your models. Really, I’ve got just a few pounds of my dress allowance to last me till Christmas. I expect Mrs. Dacres would be simply wild if she knew.”
Doris giggled.
“I should say she would.”
“Did I do it well?” asked Egg. “Did I look as though I had money?”
“You did it splendidly, Miss Lytton Gore. Madam thinks you’re going to get quite a lot of things.”
