over-eager. So Tuppence decided to walk to the end of the street and back again. She did so. On the stroke of eleven she plunged into the recesses of the building.

The Esthonia Glassware Co. was on the top floor. There was a lift, but Tuppence chose to walk up. Slightly out of breath, she came to a halt outside the ground glass door with the legend painted across it “Esthonia Glassware Co.”

Tuppence knocked. In response to a voice from within, she turned the handle and walked into a small rather dirty outer office. A middle-aged clerk got down from a high stool at a desk near the window and came towards her inquiringly.

"I have an appointment with Mr. Whittington," said Tuppence.

"Will you come this way, please." He crossed to a partition door with “Private” on it, knocked, then opened the door and stood aside to let her pass in.

Mr. Whittington was seated behind a large desk covered with papers. Tuppence felt her previous judgment confirmed. There was something wrong about Mr. Whittington. The combination of his sleek prosperity and his shifty eye was not attractive.He looked up and nodded. “So you’ve turned up all right? That’s good. Sit down, will you?” Tuppence sat down on the chair facing him. She looked particularly small and demure this morning. She sat there meekly with downcast eyes whilst Mr. Whittington sorted and rustled amongst his papers. Finally he pushed them away, and leaned over the desk. “Now, my dear young lady, let us come to business.” His large face broadened into a smile. “You want work? Well, I have work to offer you. What should you say now to £100 down, and all expenses paid?” Mr. Whittington leaned back in his chair, and thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat. Tuppence eyed him warily. “And the nature of the work?” she demanded. “Nominal--purely nominal. A pleasant trip, that is all.” “Where to?” Mr. Whittington smiled again. “Paris.” “Oh!” said Tuppence thoughtfully. To herself she said: “Of course, if father heard that he would have a fit! But somehow I don’t see Mr. Whittington in the role of the gay deceiver.” “Yes,” continued Whittington. “What could be more delightful? To put the clock back a few years--a very few, I am sure--and re-enter one of those charming _pensionnats de jeunes filles_ with which Paris abounds----” Tuppence interrupted him. “A _pensionnat?_” “Exactly. Madame Colombier’s in the Avenue de Neuilly.” Tuppence knew the name well. Nothing could have been more selected. She had had several American friends there. She was more than ever puzzled. “You 

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