“Then it’s off!” Tuppence rose. “It’s both or neither. Sorry⁠—but that’s how it is. Good morning, Mr. Whittington.”

“Wait a minute. Let us see if something can’t be managed. Sit down again, Miss⁠—” He paused interrogatively.

Tuppence’s conscience gave her a passing twinge as she remembered the archdeacon. She seized hurriedly on the first name that came into her head.

“Jane Finn,” she said hastily; and then paused open-mouthed at the effect of those two simple words.

All the geniality had faded out of Whittington’s face. It was purple with rage, and the veins stood out on the forehead. And behind it all there lurked a sort of incredulous dismay. He leaned forward and hissed savagely:

“So that’s your little game, is it?”