“Supposing we sit down,” she said pleasantly. “Our present attitude is a little melodramatic. No⁠—not on the bed. Draw a chair up to the table, that’s right. Now I’ll sit opposite you with the revolver in front of me⁠—just in case of accidents. Splendid. Now, let’s talk.”

“What about?” said Mrs. Vandemeyer sullenly.

Tuppence eyed her thoughtfully for a minute. She was remembering several things. Boris’s words, “I believe you would sell⁠— us !” and her answer, “The price would have to be enormous,” given lightly, it was true, yet might not there be a substratum of truth in it? Long ago, had not Whittington asked: “Who’s been blabbing? Rita?” Would Rita Vandemeyer prove to be the weak spot in the armour of Mr. Brown?

Keeping her eyes fixed steadily on the other’s face, Tuppence replied quietly:

“Money⁠—”

Mrs. Vandemeyer started. Clearly, the reply was unexpected.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you. You said just now that you had a long memory. A long memory isn’t half as useful as a long purse! I dare say it relieves your feelings a good deal to plan out all sorts of dreadful things to do to me, but is that practical ? Revenge is very unsatisfactory. Everyone always says so. But money”⁠—Tuppence warmed to her pet creed⁠—“well, there’s nothing unsatisfactory about money, is there?”

“Do you think,” said Mrs. Vandemeyer scornfully, “that I am the kind of woman to sell my friends?”