With evident reluctance she stepped out to the pavement, slammed the door, and stood dejectedly beside the car. It was plain that she wanted to stave off for as long as possible the dissolution of the Great Adventure. Brett realised that the end had been accelerated by his sudden withdrawal of interest, the sudden upsurge of his separate life bringing home to her the sad truth that their contact was temporary and superficial. He felt sorry for her. “Goodbye, Stephanie,” he said. “Thank you for bringing back the glove.”

“How do you know my name?” she asked.

“I saw it in your coat when I took it off.”

“What a lot you do notice,” she sighed. “Geoffrey’s eyes, and this—”

For a moment Brett thought she was going to ask him his Christian name; but she didn’t.

“I must go,” she said abruptly. “Goodbye.”

She turned and ran. Brett pushed the starter.

* * *

He drove home rather faster than he had driven to the station. He put the car to bed with a speed that would have lost no marks at a rally, crunched across the lawn, and thudded up the iron stairs. The flat was still in darkness; Christina had not yet come home. He let himself into the kitchen, padded through to the living room and dropped heavily into an armchair.

The situation in which he found himself could no longer be pushed to one side. He had bought for Christina a cameo brooch, the price of which had been deliberately cut. At best he could thank Majendie’s desire to get him out of the shop, the blessed sanctuary. The old man, while his back was turned, must have sent Mr. Emmanuel a warning look—this is a police inspector; or at any rate—this is someone I want buttered up, so give him whatever he wants at a third its price and sweep the sordid creature out of our premises. He reflected sourly that Majendie, even in thought, would not have used the words buttered up. At worst, the Diana cameo was the beginning of blandishment, the first part of a bribe, tentative, not yet crudely offered; a persuasion not to investigate what Majendie might have to conceal, whether a link with the Karukhin affair or some other illegality.

But thirty-five pounds! he said to himself. In the context of his earned income alone, and of Majendie’s lucrative trade, it seemed a ludicrous sum to take as proof of a serious intent to bribe. But, to his certain knowledge, disastrous, ramifying scandals had sprung from tinier seeds. To return the brooch and tell them what he had learnt was, however, out of the question. It was better that Majendie’s, or Majendie, should believe him lulled in complaisance; at least, for a time. Besides, he didn’t want to put Stephanie Cole in the black. He wondered why he should bother with her. Stephanie Cole! Yet he couldn’t think of her harshly. Poor Stephanie, victim to a hazy, half-comprehended infatuation, to chafing impatience of the solid security that had coddled her; victim, perversely but inevitably, to resentment at being displaced from the position of spoilt family baby—he would have forgiven her a lot. And it would be too hypocritical in himself not to acknowledge a certain sympathy with the mainsprings, as he defined them, of her behaviour with the glove; sex, curiosity, and a desire for attention.