“Ye‑es, I think I am. Besides, we’re so successful now—the luck might change.”
“Who’s talking about luck now?” asked Tommy triumphantly.
At that moment they turned in at the doorway of the block of buildings in which the International Detective Bureau had its offices, and Tuppence did not reply.
Albert was on duty in the outer office, employing his leisure in balancing, or endeavoring to balance, the office ruler upon his nose.
With a stern frown of reproof, the great Mr. Blunt passed into his own private office. Divesting himself of his overcoat and hat, he opened the cupboard, on the shelves of which reposed his classic library of the great detectives of fiction.
“The choice narrows,” murmured Tommy. “On whom shall I model myself today?”
Tuppence’s voice, with an unusual note in it, made him turn sharply.
“Tommy,” she said. “What day of the month is it?”
“Let me see—the eleventh—why?”
“Look at the calendar.”
Hanging on the wall was one of those calendars from which you tear a leaf every day. It bore the legend of Sunday the 16th. Today was Monday.
“By Jove, that’s odd. Albert must have torn off too many. Careless little devil.”
“I don’t believe he did,” said Tuppence. “But we’ll ask him.”