“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.
“You want me to go to Madame Colombier’s? For how long?”
“That depends. Possibly three months.”
“And that is all? There are no other conditions?”
“None whatever. You would, of course, go in the character of my ward, and you would hold no communication with your friends. I should have to request absolute secrecy for the time being. By the way, you are English, are you not?”