“The Larches, Hangman’s Lane—rather a lonely part, I am afraid. But we command magnificent views over the Heath.”
“Quite so,” said Tommy.
The visitor rose.
“Then I shall expect you tonight, Mr. Blunt. Outside The Larches at—shall we say, five minutes to eleven—to be on the safe side?”
“Certainly. Five minutes to eleven. Good afternoon, Dr. Bower.”
Tommy rose, pressed the buzzer on his desk, and Albert appeared to show the client out. The doctor walked with a decided limp, but his powerful physique was evident in spite of it.
“An ugly customer to tackle,” murmured Tommy to himself. “Well, Tuppence, old girl, what do you think of it?”
“I’ll tell you in one word,” said Tuppence. “ Clubfoot! ”
“What?”
“I said Clubfoot! My study of the Classics has not been in vain. Tommy, this thing’s a plant. Obscure alkaloids indeed—I never heard a weaker story.”
“Even I did not find it very convincing,” admitted her husband.
“Did you see his eyes on the letter? Tommy, he’s one of the gang. They’ve got wise to the fact that you’re not the real Mr. Blunt, and they’re out for our blood.”
“In that case,” said Tommy, opening the side cupboard, and surveying his rows of books with an affectionate eye. “Our role is easy to select. We are the brothers Okewood! And I am Desmond,” he added firmly.