“It’s been a darned dull day,” said Tommy, and yawned widely.
“Nearly tea time,” said Tuppence and also yawned.
Business was not brisk in the International Detective Agency. The eagerly expected letter from the ham merchant had not arrived and bona fide cases were not forthcoming.
Albert, the office boy, entered with a sealed package which he laid on the table.
“The Mystery of the Sealed Packet,” murmured Tommy. “Did it contain the fabulous pearls of the Russian Grand Duchess? Or was it an infernal machine destined to blow Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives to pieces?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Tuppence, tearing open the package, “it’s my wedding present to Francis Haviland. Rather nice, isn’t it?”
Tommy took a slender silver cigarette case from her outstretched hand, noted the inscription engraved in her own handwriting: Francis from Tuppence , opened and shut the case, and nodded approvingly.
“You do throw your money about, Tuppence,” he remarked. “I’ll have one like it, only in gold, for my birthday next month. Fancy wasting a thing like that on Francis Haviland, who always was and always will be one of the most perfect asses God ever made!”
“You forget I used to drive him about during the War, when he was a General. Ah! those were the good old days.”
“They were,” agreed Tommy. “Beautiful women used to come and squeeze my hand in Hospital, I remember. But I don’t send them all