“Now, my dear young lady, let us come to business.” His large face broadened into a smile. “You want work? Well, I have work to offer you. What should you say now to £100 down, and all expenses paid?” Mr. Whittington leaned back in his chair, and thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat.

Tuppence eyed him warily.

“And the nature of the work?” she demanded.

“Nominal⁠—purely nominal. A pleasant trip, that is all.”

“Where to?”

Mr. Whittington smiled again.

“Paris.”

“Oh!” said Tuppence thoughtfully. To herself she said: “Of course, if father heard that he would have a fit! But somehow I don’t see Mr. Whittington in the role of the gay deceiver.”

“Yes,” continued Whittington. “What could be more delightful? To put the clock back a few years⁠—a very few, I am sure⁠—and reenter one of those charming pensionnats de jeunes filles with which Paris abounds⁠—”

Tuppence interrupted him.

“A pensionnat ?”

“Exactly. Madame Colombier’s in the Avenue de Neuilly.”

Tuppence knew the name well. Nothing could have been more select. She had had several American friends there. She was more than ever puzzled.