strictly teetotal aunt.”
“I,” said Tuppence, “shall be Polton.”
Tommy looked at her scornfully.
“Polton indeed. You couldn’t begin to do one of the things that he does.”
“Yes, I can,” said Tuppence. “I can rub my hands together when I’m pleased. That’s quite enough to get on with. I hope you’re going to take plaster casts of footprints?”
Tommy was reduced to silence. Having collected the corkscrew they went round to the garage, got out the car and started for Wimbledon.
The Laurels was a big house. It ran somewhat to gables and turrets, had an air of being very newly painted, and was surrounded with neat flower beds filled with scarlet geraniums.
A tall man with a close cropped white moustache, and an exaggeratedly martial bearing opened the door before Tommy had time to ring.
“I’ve been looking out for you,” he explained fussily. “ Mr. Blunt, is it not? I am Colonel Kingston Bruce. Will you come into my study?”
He led them into a small room at the back of the house.
“Young St. Vincent was telling me wonderful things about your firm. I’ve noticed your advertisements myself. This guaranteed twenty-four hours service of yours—a marvelous notion. That’s exactly what I need.”
Inwardly anathematizing Tuppence for her irresponsibility in inventing this brilliant detail, Tommy replied: “Just so, Colonel.”
“The whole thing is most distressing, sir, most distressing.”