XV

Tommy nodded seriously enough.

“I quite agree. But I never can resist ragging you, Tuppence. Of course there’s something queer about the house, and whatever it is, it’s something that’s difficult to get at. Otherwise a mere burglary would do the trick. But to be willing to buy the house means either that you’ve got to take up floors or pull down walls, or else that there’s a coal mine under the back garden!”

“I don’t want it to be a coal mine. Buried treasure is much more romantic.”

“H’m,” said Tommy. “In that case I think that I shall pay a visit to the local Bank Manager, explain that I am staying here over Christmas and probably buying the Red House, and discuss the question of opening an account.”

“But why⁠—?”

“Wait and see.”

Tommy returned at the end of half an hour. His eyes were twinkling.

“We advance, Tuppence. Our interview proceeded on the lines indicated. I then asked casually whether he had had much gold paid in, as is often the case nowadays in these small country banks⁠—small farmers who hoarded it during the War, you understand. From that we proceeded quite naturally to the extraordinary vagaries of old ladies. I invented an aunt, who on the outbreak of the War, drove to the Army and Navy Stores in a four wheeler, and returned with sixteen hams. He immediately mentioned a client of his own who had insisted on drawing out every penny of money she had⁠—in gold as far as possible, and who also insisted on having her securities, bearer bonds and such things, given into her own custody. I exclaimed on such an act of folly, and he