the items on her fingers.
“One jewel robbery, two escapes from violent death, one case of missing lady reducing her figure, one young girl befriended, an alibi successfully exploded, and alas! one case where we made utter fools of ourselves. On the whole, jolly good! We’re very clever, I think.”
“You would think so,” said Tommy. “You always do. Now I have a secret feeling that once or twice we’ve been rather lucky.”
“Nonsense,” said Tuppence. “All done by the little grey cells.”
“Well, I was damned lucky once,” said Tommy. “The day that Albert did his lasso act! But you speak, Tuppence, as though it was all over?”
“So it is,” said Tuppence. She lowered her voice impressively. “This is our last case. When they have laid the super spy by the heels, the great detectives intend to retire and take to bee keeping or vegetable-marrow growing. It’s always done.”
“Tired of it, eh?”
“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