21 : The Spangled FrillIt was September, and the hot airs of the long summer were beginning to be dispersed by the light breezes which precede the mistral, when Mr. Campion and Mike stood upon the long concrete platform of the railway station at Avignon and waited for the Paris train.
It was just dusk and inside the walls of the city the plane trees were making high tents against the sky, while down in the place the rival cafés jostled each other off the cobbles, the different colours of their painted chairs alone proclaiming their irregular boundaries.
Both men looked well and exceedingly pleased with themselves. Mike especially was frankly jubilant, as every now and again he glanced at his wrist-watch.
“I still think we ought to have gone on to Paris,” he said. “I can’t see why you’re
