"All the same," continued Whittington, "some one's been talking.
You say it isn't Rita. Was it----? Oh, come in."

The clerk followed his discreet knock into the room, and laid a
paper at his master's elbow.

"Telephone message just come for you, sir."

Whittington snatched it up and read it. A frown gathered on his
brow.

"That'll do, Brown. You can go."

The clerk withdrew, closing the door behind him. Whittington
turned to Tuppence.

"Come to-morrow at the same time. I'm busy now. Here's fifty to
go on with."

He rapidly sorted out some notes, and pushed them across the
table to Tuppence, then stood up, obviously impatient for her to
go.

The girl counted the notes in a businesslike manner, secured them
in her handbag, and rose.

"Good morning, Mr. Whittington," she said politely. "At least, au
revoir, I should say."

"Exactly. Au revoir!" Whittington looked almost genial again, a