over her mouth to drown the scream rising to her lips.
In the meantime, things were happening rather quickly beyond the swing door. As Tommy passed through, a cloth was flung over his head, and a sickly odor assailed his nostrils. Almost as soon however, it was jerked off again, and a woman’s scream rang out.
Tommy blinked a little and coughed as he took in the scene in front of him.
On his right was the mysterious stranger of a few hours ago, and busily fitting handcuffs upon him was one of the bored men from the shop parlor.
Just in front of him was Cicely March wrestling vainly to free herself, whilst the woman customer from the shop held her firmly pinioned.
As the latter turned her head, and the veil she wore unfastened itself and fell off, the well known features of Tuppence were revealed.
“Well done, Tuppence,” said Tommy, moving forward. “Let me give you a hand. I shouldn’t struggle if I were you, Miss O’Hara—or do you prefer to be called Miss March?”
“This is Inspector Grace, Tommy,” said Tuppence. “As soon as I read the note you left I rang up Scotland Yard, and Inspector Grace and another man met me outside here.”
“Very glad to get hold of this gentleman,” said the Inspector, indicating his prisoner. “He’s wanted badly. But we’ve never had cause to suspect this place—thought it was a genuine beauty shop.”
“You see,” explained Tommy gently. “We do have to be