too,” said Tuppence, in a melancholy voice. “All the same, I’m not going to be beaten. If necessary, I shall commit a crime myself, and you will detect it.”
“And what good would that do? Think of my feelings when I bid you a tender farewell at Bow Street—or is it Vine Street?”
“You are thinking of your bachelor days,” said Tuppence pointedly.
“The Old Bailey, that is what I mean,” said Tommy.
“Well,” said Tuppence, “something has got to be done about it. Here we are bursting with talent and no chance of exercising it.”
“I always like your cheery optimism, Tuppence. You seem to have no doubt whatever that you have talent to exercise.”
“Of course,” said Tuppence opening her eyes very wide.
“And yet you have no expert knowledge whatever.”
“Well, I have read every detective novel that has been published in the last ten years.”
“So have I,” said Tommy, “but I have a sort of feeling that that wouldn’t really help us much.”
“You always were a pessimist, Tommy. Belief in oneself—that is the great thing.”
“Well, you have got it all right,” said her husband.
“Of course it is all right in detective stories,” said Tuppence thoughtfully, “because one works backwards. I mean if one knows the solution one can arrange the clues. I wonder now—”
She