Tommy read through the notes on the pad.
“What do you really think has happened to the girl?” he asked.
“I think,” said Tuppence, “that she has fled at the dictates of her heart, feeling that she loves this young man too well for her peace of mind.”
Tommy looked at her doubtfully.
“I know they do it in books,” he said, “but I’ve never known any girl who did it in real life.”
“No?” said Tuppence. “Well, perhaps you’re right. But I daresay Lawrence St. Vincent will swallow that sort of slush. He’s full of romantic notions just now. By the way, I guaranteed results in twenty-four hours—our special service.”
“Tuppence—you congenital idiot, what made you do that?”
“The idea just came into my head. I thought it sounded rather well. Don’t you worry. Leave it to Mother. Mother knows best.”
She went out, leaving Tommy profoundly dissatisfied.
Presently he rose, sighed, and went out to do what could be done, cursing Tuppence’s over fervent imagination.
When he returned weary and jaded at half past four, he found Tuppence extracting a bag of biscuits from their place of concealment in one of the files.
“You look hot and bothered,” she remarked. “What have you been doing?”
Tommy groaned.
“Making a round of the Hospitals with that girl’s description.”