In another minute the Scotland Yard detective was entering the inner office. In appearance, Inspector Dymchurch was of the same type as Inspector Marriot, short and thick set, with shrewd eyes.
“Good afternoon,” said the detective breezily. “Marriot’s away in South Wales, but before he went, he asked me to keep an eye on you two, and on this place in general.
Oh! bless you, sir,” he went on, as Tommy seemed about to interrupt him, “ we know all about it. It’s not our department, and we don’t interfere. But somebody’s got wise lately to the fact that all is not what it seems.
You’ve had a gentleman here this afternoon. I don’t know what he called himself, and I don’t know what his real name is, but I know just a little about him. Enough to want to know more. Am I right in assuming that he made a date with you for some particular spot this evening?”
“Quite right.”
“I thought as much. 16 Westerham Road, Finsbury Park? Was that it?”
“You’re wrong there,” said Tommy with a smile. “Dead wrong. The Larches, Hampstead.”
Dymchurch seemed honestly taken aback. Clearly he had not expected this.
“I don’t understand it,” he muttered. “It must be a new layout. The Larches, Hampstead, you said?”
“Yes. I’m to meet him there at eleven o’clock tonight.”
“Don’t you do it, sir.”
“There!” burst from Tuppence.