“Tuppence,” said Tommy, “we shall have to move into a much larger office.”
“Nonsense,” said Tuppence. “You mustn’t get swollen headed and think you are a millionaire just because you solved two or three twopenny halfpenny cases with the aid of the most amazing luck.”
“What some call luck, others call skill.”
“Of course if you really think you are Sherlock Holmes, Thorndyke, McCarty and the Brothers Okewood all rolled into one there is no more to be said. Personally I would much rather have luck on my side than all the skill in the world.”
“Perhaps there is something in that,” conceded Tommy. “All the same, Tuppence, we do need a larger office.”
“Why?”
“The Classics,” said Tommy. “We need several hundreds of yards of extra book shelf if Edgar Wallace is to be properly represented.”
“We haven’t had an Edgar Wallace case yet.”
“I am afraid we never shall,” said Tommy. “If you notice he never does give the amateur sleuth much of a chance. It is all stern Scotland Yard kind of stuff—the real thing and no base counterfeit.”
Albert, the office boy, appeared at the door.
“Inspector Marriot to see you,” he announced.
“The mystery man of Scotland Yard,” murmured Tommy.