Mistral was suddenly aware that his voice had taken on an almost hypnotic quality. His eyes were looking down deep, deep into hers, and she felt as if some dark mist were rising within her. Even as she sensed this, she saw that the Rajah’s hand had gone out towards her neck and she knew that he meant to touch the pearls.

With an exclamation which was almost a cry she forced her eyes away from his, and with a sudden unexpected movement pushed her way past him and into the lighted Concert Room. She was so quick that the Rajah, reaching out to stop her, was too late. She was free, and before he could do anything was running as quickly as she could down the corridor and through the door which led to the Ladies’ Cloakroom.

There was another passage between the outer and inner doors of the Cloakroom, and as Mistral reached the second door, still running blindly and with a terror which lent wings to her feet, she collided with another woman who was coming out.

‘Lor – I’m sorry!’ the woman exclaimed in English.

Mistral looked up to see that it was the pretty, fair haired woman whom she had often noticed in company with the Rajah. For a moment she could only stare at Stella, her breath coming unevenly from between her parted lips, then she realised that in the collision the tulle which trimmed the bodice of her grey satin dress had become entangled in one of the jewelled butterflies with which Stella’s dress was ornamented. They were joined together, and after a second’s stupefaction from the force of the impact Mistral reached up to try to disengage the butterfly.

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘It was my fault for entering so quickly.’

‘That’s all right,’ Stella replied. ‘You did seem to be in a bit of a hustle. Thought you must be off to catch a train or something.’

Mistral tried to smile.

‘No, it was not a train which made me run.’

Stella looked at her.

‘You’re awfully pale,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Something must have upset you. Never mind about that stupid butterfly, give it a good tug. Let me try.’

‘No, pray do not move,’ Mistral begged.

With skilful fingers she disentangled the tulle from the tiny metal claws framing each of the colourful pieces of glass of which the butterfly was constructed.

‘Thanks,’ Stella said when she was free.

‘Unfortunately the butterfly is hanging by only a thread,’ Mistral replied.

‘I expect the attendant can mend it,’ Stella remarked, but she did not move, and Mistral realised that she was waiting for her to lead the way. With a shy little smile she went into the Cloakroom and handed Aunt Emilie’s cloak to the woman in charge. Then she turned to see Stella had come in behind her and was looking down at her sleeve.