“I still can’t see any sense in the thing,” said Tuppence, frowning. “If a gang of crooks get hold of the Ambassador’s bag for an hour or two, and then send it back, what possible good can it do them? Unless there are papers in it they want to copy, and Mr. Wilmott swears there was nothing of the kind.”
Tommy stared at her thoughtfully.
“You put these things rather well, Tuppence,” he said at last. “You’ve given me an idea.”
It was two days later. Tuppence was out to lunch. Tommy, alone in the austere office of Mr. Theodore Blunt, was improving his mind by reading the latest sensational thriller.
The door of the office opened and Albert appeared.
“A young lady to see you, sir. Miss Cicely March. She says she has called in answer to an advertisement.”
“Show her in at once,” cried Tommy, thrusting his novel into a convenient drawer.
In another minute Albert had ushered in the young lady. Tommy had just time to see that she was fair haired and extremely pretty when the amazing occurrence happened.
The door through which Albert had just passed out was rudely burst open. In the doorway stood a picturesque figure—a big dark man, Spanish in appearance, with a flaming red tie. His features were distorted with rage, and in his hand was a gleaming pistol.
“So this is the office of Mr. Busybody Blunt,” he said in perfect English. His voice was low and venomous. “Hands up at once—or I shoot.”