screwed into a false heel?”
The Ambassador seemed amused by the question.
“Secret diplomacy hasn’t got to that pitch, I hope.”
“Only in fiction,” said Tommy with an answering smile, and a slightly apologetic manner. “But you see, we’ve got to account for the thing somehow. Who came for the bag—the other bag, I mean?”
“Supposed to be one of Westerham’s servants. Quite a quiet ordinary man, so I understand. My valet saw nothing wrong with him.”
“Had it been unpacked, do you know?”
“That I can’t say. I presume not. But perhaps you’d like to ask the valet a few questions? He can tell you more than I can about the business.”
“I think that would be the best plan, Mr. Wilmott.”
The Ambassador scribbled a few words on a card and handed it to Tommy.
“I opine that you would prefer to go round to the Embassy and make your inquiries there? If not, I will have the man—his name is Richards, by the way—sent round here.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Wilmott. I should prefer to go to the Embassy.”
The Ambassador rose, glancing at his watch.
“Dear me, I shall be late for an appointment. Well, goodbye, Mr. Blunt. I leave the matter in your hands.”
He hurried away. Tommy looked at Tuppence who had been scribbling demurely on her pad in the character of the efficient Miss Robinson.