bmerged bed?" smiled Jean.
Lydia laughed.
"I'm not probing too deeply into the matter," she said. "Poor Mrs.
Cole-Mortimer was terribly upset."
"She would be," said Jean. "It was her own eiderdown!"
This was the first hint Lydia had received that the house was rented
furnished.
They drove into Nice that morning, and Lydia, remembering Jack Glover's
remarks, looked closely at the chauffeur, and was startled to see a
resemblance between him and the man who had driven the taxicab on the
night she had been carried off from the theatre. It is true that the
taxi-driver had a moustache and that this man was clean-shaven, and
moreover, had tiny side whiskers, but there was a resemblance.
"Have you had your driver long?" she asked as they were running through
Monte Carlo, along the sea road.
"Mordon? Yes, we have had him six or seven years," said Jean
carelessly. "He drives us when we are on the continent, you know. He
speaks French perfectly and is an excellent driver. Father has tried to
persuade him to come to England, but he hates London--he was telling me
the other day that he hadn't been there for ten years."
That disposed of the resemblance, thought Lydia, and yet--she could
remember his voice, she thought, and when they alighted on the Promenade
des Anglaise she spoke to him. He replied in French, and it is
impossible to detect points of resemblance in a voice that speaks one
language and the same voice when it speaks another.
The promenade was crowded with saunterers. A band was playing by the
jetty and although the wind was colder than it had been at Cap Martin
the sun was warm enough to necessitate the opening of a parasol.
It was a race week, and the two girls lunched at the Negrito. They were
in the midst of their meal when a man came toward them and Lydia
recognised Mr. Marcus Stepney. This dark, suave man was no favourite of
hers, though why she could not have explained. His manners were always
perfect and, towards her, deferential.
As usual, he was dressed with the precision of a fashion-plate. Mr.
Marcus Stepney was a man, a considerable portion of whose time was
taken up every morning by the choice of cravats and socks and shirts.
Though Lydia did not know this, his smartness, plus a certain dexterity
with cards, was his stock in trade. No breath of scandal had touched
him, he moved in a good set and was always at the right place at the
proper season.
When Aix was full he was certain
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