“I don’t know what to say to Julius, I’m sure. Oh, what a fool I feel! I’ll have to say something ⁠—he’s so American and thorough, he’ll insist upon having a reason. I wonder if he did find anything in that safe⁠—”

Tuppence’s meditations went off on another tack. She reviewed the events of last night carefully and persistently. Somehow, they seemed bound up with Sir James’s enigmatical words.⁠ ⁠…

Suddenly she gave a great start⁠—the colour faded out of her face. Her eyes, fascinated, gazed in front of her, the pupils dilated.

“Impossible,” she murmured. “Impossible! I must be going mad even to think of such a thing.⁠ ⁠…”

Monstrous⁠—yet it explained everything.⁠ ⁠…

After a moment’s reflection she sat down and wrote a note, weighing each word as she did so. Finally she nodded her head as though satisfied, and slipped it into an envelope which she addressed to Julius. She went down the passage to his sitting-room and knocked at the door. As she had expected, the room was empty. She left the note on the table.

A small pageboy was waiting outside her own door when she returned to it.

“Telegram for you, miss.”

Tuppence took it from the salver, and tore it open carelessly. Then she gave a cry. The telegram was from Tommy!