“I know,” said Tuppence sympathetically. “It isn’t the same thing at all. You can go on telling yourself how good and worthy he is, and adding up his qualities as though they were an addition sum—and it all has a simply refrigerating effect.”
Monica nodded.
“Well,” said Tuppence, “I think it would be as well if we went down to the neighborhood and studied matters upon the spot. What is the address?”
“The Red House, Stourton in the Marsh.”
Tuppence wrote down the address in her note book.
“I didn’t ask you,” Monica began—“about terms—” she ended, blushing a little.
“Our payments are strictly by results,” said Tuppence gravely. “If the secret of the Red House is a profitable one, as seems possible from the anxiety displayed to acquire the property, we should expect a small percentage, otherwise—nothing!”
“Thank you very much,” said the girl gratefully.
“And now,” said Tuppence, “don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right. Let’s enjoy lunch and talk of interesting things.”