THE SECRET ADVERSARY BY AGATHA CHRISTIE

result of further meditations, however, she turned aside from the direct route

and entered a post office. There she pondered for some moments, a telegraph form

in her hand. The thought of a possible five shillings spent unnecessarily

spurred her to action, and she decided to risk the waste of ninepence.

Disdaining the spiky pen and thick, black treacle which a beneficent

Government had provided, Tuppence drew out Tommy’s pencil which she had retained

and wrote rapidly: “Don’t put in advertisement. Will explain to-morrow.” She

addressed it to Tommy at his club, from which in one short month he would have

to resign, unless a kindly fortune permitted him to renew his subscription.

“It may catch him,” she murmured. “Anyway, it’s worth trying.”

After handing it over the counter she set out briskly for home, stopping at

a baker’s to buy three penny-worth of new buns.

Later, in her tiny cubicle at the top of the house she munched buns and

reflected on the future. What was the Esthonia Glassware Co., and what earthly

need could it have for her services? A pleasurable thrill of excitement made

Tuppence tingle. At any rate, the country vicarage had retreated into the

background again. The morrow held possibilities.

It was a long time before Tuppence went to sleep that night, and, when at

length she did, she dreamed that Mr. Whittington had set her to washing up a

pile of Esthonia Glassware, which bore an unaccountable resemblance to hospital

plates!

It wanted some five minutes to eleven when Tuppence reached the block of

buildings in which the offices of the Esthonia Glassware Co. were situated. To

arrive before the time would look 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 L100 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 select. She had

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