“I don’t know,” said the young man. “I don’t know anything.”
Tommy reached for a pad and pencil.
“First of all,” he said, “will you give me your name? My office boy is trained never to ask names. In that way consultations can remain completely confidential.”
“Oh! rather,” said the young man. “Jolly good idea. My name—er—my name’s Smith.”
“Oh! no,” said Tommy. “The real one, please.”
His visitor looked at him in awe.
“Er— St. Vincent,” he said. “Lawrence St. Vincent.”
“It’s a curious thing,” said Tommy, “how very few people there are whose real name is Smith. Personally, I don’t know anyone called Smith. But nine men out of ten who wish to conceal their real name give that of Smith. I am writing a monograph upon the subject.”
At that moment a buzzer purred discreetly on his desk. That meant that Tuppence was requesting to take hold. Tommy, who wanted his lunch, and who felt profoundly unsympathetic towards Mr. St. Vincent, was only too pleased to relinquish the helm.
“Excuse me,” he said, and picked up the telephone.
Across his face there shot rapid changes—surprise, consternation, slight elation.
“You don’t say so,” he said into the phone. “The Prime Minister himself? Of course, in that case, I will come round at once.”
He replaced the receiver on the hook, and turned to his client.