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