He had entered the squalid room to find that great man, the friend of a lifetime, dead—betrayed out of his own mouth. From the dead man’s pocketbook he had retrieved the ill-omened draft treaty, and then and there, in the presence of the other three, it had been reduced to ashes. … England was saved!
And now, on the evening of the 30th, in a private room at the Savoy, Mr. Julius P. Hersheimmer was receiving his guests.
Mr. Carter was the first to arrive. With him was a choleric-looking old gentleman, at sight of whom Tommy flushed up to the roots of his hair. He came forward.
“Ha!” said the old gentleman, surveying him apoplectically. “So you’re my nephew, are you? Not much to look at—but you’ve done good work, it seems. Your mother must have brought you up well after all. Shall we let bygones be bygones, eh? You’re my heir, you know; and in future I propose to make you an allowance—and you can look upon Chalmers Park as your home.”
“Thank you, sir, it’s awfully decent of you.”
“Where’s this young lady I’ve been hearing such a lot about?”
Tommy introduced Tuppence.
“Ha!” said Sir William, eyeing her. “Girls aren’t what they used to be in my young days.”
“Yes, they are,” said Tuppence. “Their clothes are different, perhaps, but they themselves are just the same.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right. Minxes then—minxes now!”
“That’s it,” said Tuppence. “I’m a frightful minx myself.”