Nightingale was silent. He had not said so; but, unguardedly, he had implied it, thereby putting himself in a delicate position. If Majendie were to be implicated in the affair he was investigating, then he should have nothing to do with him in any unofficial capacity, least of all in a money transaction. Majendie, in fact, was already implicated, even if innocently. But there remained less than two days in which to buy the present, and he was now determined that it should be a cameo brooch. He couldn’t be sure when or if he would be free to buy it. To defer the giving till a later date would be to disappoint her. Nobody here knew who he was or why he had come, except Majendie; and he wasn’t likely to broadcast the news.

“Yes,” he said, “I am. I want to buy one that’s set as a brooch.”

“We have a number, I believe. All at second hand, you realise? That doesn’t matter? Well then, if you would care to come into the shop—I myself, I fear, have to go out in a few moments—but I’ll entrust you to the care of Mr. Emmanuel.”

Mr. Majendie, leaving the ring on his desk with what seemed to Nightingale foolhardy carelessness, ushered him out of the door, along the corridor past increasingly imposing offices, and into the beautiful, churchlike shop. He bounced gently towards a dark well-groomed man.

“Ah, Mr. Emmanuel,” he murmured, “here is Mr. Nightingale, wishing to see some shell cameo brooches.” He turned to Nightingale. “You will excuse me, my dear sir? At your service, you know, if you should want further assistance.”

Beaming in a vague, all inclusive way, Mr. Majendie moved off like an old puffer train, leaving Nightingale in the hands of Mr. Emmanuel.

They were very capable hands. In a matter of seconds they had laid on top of a display case a tray of cameo brooches for him to inspect. He disregarded any that were elaborately framed, since Christina had admired her mother’s for its plain encircling band of gold. But those of the collection which satisfied the condition were not the most handsome. He looked up, about to ask if there were others to be offered, and saw that a young girl had come noiselessly to Mr. Emmanuel’s side. Nightingale recognised her at once; she was the girl with blonde hair, who sat on the bomb site in the sunshine, who was the youngest member of the staff; the junior odd job girl; Miss Cole.

She was murmuring a message to Mr. Emmanuel, of which Nightingale caught only the words “phone”, “lapis columns” and “Louis.” Mr. Emmanuel looked perturbed. With deference he begged to be excused for a few minutes.