all right,” said Tommy. “You’re not supposed to. Hastings never did. If your grey cells weren’t of a very inferior order to mine, what fun do you think I should get out of this game? I’m talking damned rot—but I can’t help it. You’re a good lad, Albert. You know what Tuppence is worth—she’s worth a dozen of you and me.”
Thus talking breathlessly as he ran, Tommy reentered the portals of the Blitz. He caught sight of Evans, and drew him aside with a few hurried words. The two men entered the lift, Albert with them.
“Third floor,” said Tommy.
At the door of No. 318 they paused. Evans had a pass key, and used it forthwith. Without a word of warning, they walked straight into Mrs. Van Snyder’s bedroom.
The lady was still lying on the bed, but was now arrayed in a becoming negligee. She stared at them in surprise.
“Pardon my failure to knock,” said Tommy, pleasantly. “But I want my wife. Do you mind getting off that bed?”
“I guess you’ve gone plumb crazy,” cried Mrs. Van Snyder.
Tommy surveyed her thoughtfully, his head on one side.
“Very artistic,” he pronounced. “But it won’t do. We looked under the bed—but not in it. I remember using that hiding-place myself when young. Horizontally across the bed, underneath the bolster. And that nice wardrobe trunk all ready to take away the body in later. But we were a