"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?"

Tuppence, though utterly taken aback, nevertheless kept her head.
She had not the faintest comprehension of his meaning, but she
was naturally quick-witted, and felt it imperative to "keep her
end up" as she phrased it.

Whittington went on:

"Been playing with me, have you, all the time, like a cat and
mouse? Knew all the time what I wanted you for, but kept up the
comedy. Is that it, eh?" He was cooling down. The red colour