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"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 was ebbing out of his face. He eyed her keenly.

Who's been blabbing? Rita?"

Tuppence shook her head. She was doubtful as to how long she could sustain

this illusion, but she realized the importance of not dragging an unknown Rita

into it.

"No," she replied with perfect truth. "Rita knows nothing about me."

His eyes still bored into her like gimlets.

"How much do you know?" he shot out.

"Very little indeed," answered Tuppence, and was pleased to note that

Whittington's uneasiness was augmented instead of allayed. To have boasted that

The Secret Adversary