we guarantee results,” said Tuppence crisply.
“But I say, you know. You must have the most topping staff.”
“Oh! we have,” said Tuppence. “By the way, you haven’t given me a description of the young lady.”
“She’s got the most marvellous hair—sort of golden, but very deep, like a jolly old sunset—that’s it, a jolly old sunset. You know, I never noticed things like sunsets until lately. Poetry too, there’s a lot more in poetry than I ever thought.”
“Red hair,” said Tuppence unemotionally, writing it down. “What height should you say the lady was?”
“Oh! tallish, and she’s got ripping eyes, dark blue, I think. And a sort of decided manner with her—takes a fellow up short sometimes.”
Tuppence wrote down a few words more, then closed her note book and rose.
“If you will call here tomorrow at two o’clock, I think we shall have news of some kind for you,” she said. “Good morning, Mr. St. Vincent.”
When Tommy returned Tuppence was just consulting a page of Debrett.
“I’ve got all the details,” she said succinctly. “Lawrence St. Vincent is the nephew and heir of the Earl of Cheriton. If we pull this through we shall get publicity in the highest places.”
Tommy read through the notes on the pad.
“What do you really think has happened to the girl?”