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.”
Albert, summoned and questioned, seemed very astonished. He swore he had only torn off one