the usual perversity of bedroom stationery, there were innumerable envelopes and
no paper. He rang. No one came. Tommy fumed at the delay. Then he remembered
that there was a good supply in Julius’s sitting-room. The American had
announced his immediate departure, there would be no fear of running up against
him. Besides, he wouldn’t mind if he did. He was beginning to be rather ashamed
of the things he had said. Old Julius had taken them jolly well. He’d apologize
if he found him there.
But the room was deserted. Tommy walked across to the writing-table, and
opened the middle drawer. A photograph, carelessly thrust in face upwards,
caught his eye. For a moment he stood rooted to the ground. Then he took it
out, shut the drawer, walked slowly over to an arm-chair, and sat down still
staring at the photograph in his hand.
What on earth was a photograph of the French girl Annette doing in Julius
Hersheimmer’s writing-table?
CHAPTER XXII
IN DOWNING STREET
THE Prime Minister tapped the desk in front of him with nervous fingers.
His face was worn and harassed. He took up his conversation with Mr. Carter at
the point it had broken off. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Do you really mean
that things are not so desperate after all?”
“So this lad seems to think.”
“Let’s have a look at his letter again.”
Mr. Carter handed it over. It was written in a sprawling boyish hand.
“DEAR MR. CARTER,
“Something’s turned up that has given me a jar. Of course I may be simply
making an awful ass of myself, but I don’t think so. If my conclusions are
right, that girl at Manchester was just a plant. The whole thing was
prearranged, sham packet and all, with the object of making us think the game
was up–therefore I fancy that we must have been pretty hot on the scent.
“I think I know who the real Jane Finn is, and I’ve even got an idea where
the papers are. That last’s only a guess, of course, but I’ve a sort of feeling
it’ll turn out right. Anyhow, I enclose it in a sealed envelope for what it’s
worth. I’m going to ask you not to open it until the very last moment, midnight
on the 28th, in fact. You’ll understand why in a minute. You see, I’ve figured
it out that those things of Tuppence’s are a plant too, and she’s no more
drowned than I am. The way I reason is this: as a last chance they’ll let Jane
Finn escape in the hope that she’s been shamming this memory stunt, and that
once she thinks she’s free she’ll go right away to the cache. Of course it’s an
awful risk for them to take, because she knows all about them–but they’re
pretty desperate to get hold of that treaty. BUT IF THEY KNOW THAT THE PAPERS
HAVE BEEN RECOVERED BY US, neither of those two girls’ lives will be worth an
hour’s purchase. I must try and get hold of Tuppence before Jane escapes.
“I want a repeat of that telegram that was sent to Tuppence at the Ritz.
Sir James Peel Edgerton said you would be able to manage that for me. He’s
frightfully clever.
“One last thing–please have that house in Soho watched day and night.
“Yours, etc., “THOMAS BERESFORD.”
The Prime Minister looked up.
“The enclosure?”
Mr. Carter smiled dryly.
“In the vaults of the Bank. I am taking no chances.”
“You don’t think”–the Prime Minister hesitated a minute–“that it would be
better to open it now? Surely we ought to secure the document, that is,
provided the young man’s guess turns out to be correct, at once. We can keep the
fact of having done so quite secret.”
“Can we? I’m not so sure. There are spies all round us. Once it’s known I
wouldn’t give that”–he snapped his fingers–“for the life of those two girls.
No, the boy trusted me, and I shan’t let him down.”
“Well, well, we must leave it at that, then. What’s he like, this lad?”
“Outwardly, he’s an ordinary clean-limbed, rather block-headed young
Englishman. Slow in his mental processes. On the other hand, it’s quite