Dr. Morelle at Midnight. Ernest Dudley

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      It was then that she made her first mistake. Opening her purse she took out a five-thousand franc note. A Moroccan in a red fez, who had his wares on a blanket in the kerb, smiled at her. He held up various objects and called on her to admire them. Then he pointed to a sword. ‘M’selle would perhaps be interested? The price is nothing, not a fraction of its real worth.’

      Miss Frayle hadn’t been in the least interested, but she wished to be polite, and smiled back at him. Considerably encouraged, the Moroccan held up the sword so that M’selle could see the craftsmanship, the beauty of it. It was a genuine Samurai sword, he swore, stained with the blood of many battles. He went on to describe its astonishing history. Mesmerised by his gory tale, Miss Frayle listened, occasionally nodding.

      Then, his sales talk abruptly finishing, the man said: ‘Vous êtes d’accord, M’selle.’

      There seemed no reason why she should not agree, so Miss Frayle nodded. At once the man leapt to his feet, plucked the five-thousand franc note from her hand and ceremoniously handed her the sword, hilt first. Miss Frayle gaped at the thing helplessly. ‘Mais, je ne le veux pas.’

      He raised outraged hands to heaven. ‘But you said you did want it,’ he said firmly. ‘I said, did you agree, and you nodded your head.’ He gave an elaborate shrug and turned away, washing his hands of the matter. Feeling very foolish Miss Frayle could only wander miserably off. She tried vainly to hide the sword, it seemed even more cumbersome and hideous than when she had first examined it.

      How on earth could she pack it, she was thinking now as she left the Flea Market behind her. The prospect of travelling to Monte Carlo with a sword tucked under her arm was depressing. Then an even worse thought occurred to her. Whatever will Dr. Morelle say when he sees it, she wondered?