“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.