19
Egg had not yet finished her programme for the day. Her next move was to St. John’s House, in which building the Dacres had a flat. There were sumptuous¹ window boxes and uniformed porters of such magnificence that they looked like foreign generals.
Egg did not enter the building. She strolled up and down on the opposite side of the street. After about an hour of this she calculated that she must have walked several miles. It was half-past five.
Then a taxi drew up at the Mansions², and Captain Dacres alighted from it. Egg allowed three minutes to elapse, then she crossed the road and entered the building.
Egg pressed the doorbell of No. 3. Dacres himself opened the door. He was still engaged in taking off his overcoat.
“Oh,” said Egg. “How do you do? You do remember me, don’t you?
We met in Cornwall, and again in Yorkshire.”
“Of course - of course. In at the death both times, weren’t we?
Come in, Miss Lytton Gore³.”
“I wanted to see your wife. Is she in?”
“She’s round in Bruton Street - at her dressmaking place.”
“I know. I was there today. I thought perhaps she’d be back by now, and that she wouldn’t mind, perhaps, if I came here - only, of course, I suppose I’m being a frightful⁴ bother - ”
Egg paused appealingly.
Freddie Dacres said to himself:
“Nice looking filly. Damned pretty girl, in fact.”
Aloud he said:
“Cynthia won’t be back till well after six. I’ve just come back from Newbury. Had a rotten day and left early. Come round to the Seventy-Two Club and have a cocktail⁵?”
Egg accepted, though she had a shrewd suspicion that Dacres had already had quite as much alcohol as was good for him.
Sitting in the underground dimness of the Seventy-Two Club, and sipping⁶ a Martini, Egg said: “This is great fun. I’ve never been here before.”
Freddie Dacres smiled indulgently. He liked a young and pretty girl. Not perhaps as much as he liked some other things - but well enough.

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