“Done,” said Tuppence. “Hist! To your typewriters, Oh! Israel. One comes.”
Mr. Blunt’s office was humming with industry as Albert opened the door and announced:
“Miss Monica Deane.”
A slender brown haired girl, rather shabbily dressed, entered and stood hesitating.
Tommy came forward.
“Good morning, Miss Deane. Won’t you sit down and tell us what we can do for you? By the way, let me introduce my confidential secretary, Miss Sheringham.”
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Deane,” said Tuppence. “Your father was in the Church, I think.”
“Yes, he was. But how did you know that?”
“Oh! we have our methods,” said Tuppence. “You mustn’t mind me rattling on. Mr. Blunt likes to hear me talk. He always says it gives him ideas.”
The girl stared at her. She was a slender creature, not beautiful, but possessing a wistful prettiness. She had a quantity of soft mouse-colored hair, and her eyes were dark blue and very lovely, though the dark shadows round them spoke of trouble and anxiety.
“Will you tell me your story, Miss Deane?” said Tommy.
The girl turned to him gratefully.
“It’s such a long, rambling story,” said the girl. “My name is Monica Deane. My father was the rector of Little Hampsley in Suffolk. He died