“If we’d had a pack of cards here, we might have had a game of picquet to pass the time,” drawled Tommy. “Women always keep one waiting. I hope you’re not going to be unkind to little Tuppence when she comes?”
“Oh! no,” said Dymchurch. “We shall arrange for you to go to the same place—together.”
“Will you, you swine,” said Tommy under his breath.
Suddenly there was a stir in the outer office. A man whom Tommy had not yet seen poked his head in and growled something in Russian.
“Good,” said Dymchurch. “She is coming—and coming alone.”
For a moment a faint anxiety caught at Tommy’s heart.
The next minute he heard Tuppence’s voice.
“Oh! there you are, Inspector Dymchurch. I’ve brought the letter. Where is Francis?”
With the last words she came through the door, and Vassily sprang on her from behind, clapping his hand over her mouth. Dymchurch tore the handbag from her grasp, and turned over its contents in a frenzied search.
Suddenly he uttered an ejaculation of delight and held up a blue envelope with a Russian stamp on it. Coggins gave a hoarse shout.
And just in that minute of triumph, the other door, the door into Tuppence’s own office, opened noiselessly and Inspector Marriot and two men armed with revolvers stepped into the room, with the sharp command: “Hands Up!”