on the film could be imagined to represent a small winged creature perched on the fender.
“It has got wings!” cried Tuppence. “What fun, a real live fairy in our flat. Shall we write to Conan Doyle about it? Oh, Tommy. Do you think she’ll give us wishes?”
“You will soon know,” said Tommy. “You have been wishing hard enough for something to happen all the afternoon.”
At that minute the door opened, and a tall lad of fifteen who seemed undecided as to whether he was a footman or a page boy inquired in a truly magnificent manner:
“Are you at Home, Madam? The front door bell has just rung.”
“I wish Albert wouldn’t go to the Pictures,” sighed Tuppence after she had signified her assent, and Albert had withdrawn. “He’s copying a Long Island butler now. Thank goodness I’ve cured him of asking for people’s cards and bringing them to me on a salver.”
The door opened again, and Albert announced: “ Mr. Carter,” much as though it were a Royal title.
“The Chief,” muttered Tommy, in great surprise.
Tuppence jumped up with a glad exclamation, and greeted a tall grey-haired man with piercing eyes and a tired smile.
“ Mr. Carter, I am glad to see you.”
“That’s good, Mrs. Tommy. Now answer me a question. How’s life generally?”
“Satisfactory, but dull,” replied Tuppence with a twinkle.