“She’s style about her, and keeps her silver a treat⁠—but, my word, ain’t she got a temper. Are you going up now, miss? Step inside the lift. No. 20 did you say?” And he winked.

Tuppence quelled him with a stern glance, and stepped inside.

As she rang the bell of No. 20 she was conscious of Albert’s eyes slowly descending beneath the level of the floor.

A smart young woman opened the door.

“I’ve come about the place,” said Tuppence.

“It’s a rotten place,” said the young woman without hesitation. “Regular old cat⁠—always interfering. Accused me of tampering with her letters. Me! The flap was half undone anyway. There’s never anything in the wastepaper basket⁠—she burns everything. She’s a wrong ’un, that’s what she is. Swell clothes, but no class. Cook knows something about her⁠—but she won’t tell⁠—scared to death of her. And suspicious! She’s on to you in a minute if you as much as speak to a fellow. I can tell you⁠—”

But what more Annie could tell, Tuppence was never destined to learn, for at that moment a clear voice with a peculiarly steely ring to it called:

“Annie!”

The smart young woman jumped as if she had been shot.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“It’s a young woman about the situation, ma’am.”