Mr. Whittington spoke again:

"If you will call upon me to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock, I
will lay the details of my proposition before you."

"At eleven o'clock?" said Tuppence doubtfully.

"At eleven o'clock."

Tuppence made up her mind.

"Very well.  I'll be there."

"Thank you.  Good evening."

He raised his hat with a flourish, and walked away. Tuppence
remained for some minutes gazing after him. Then she gave a
curious movement of her shoulders, rather as a terrier shakes
himself.

"The adventures have begun," she murmured to herself. "What does
he want me to do, I wonder?  There's something about you, Mr.
Whittington, that I don't like at all. But, on the other hand,
I'm not the least bit afraid of you. And as I've said before, and
shall doubtless say again, little Tuppence can look after
herself, thank you!"

And with a short, sharp nod of her head she walked briskly
onward. As a result of further meditations, however, she turned
aside from the direct route and entered a post office. There she
pondered for some moments, a telegraph form in her hand. The
thought of a possible five shillings spent unnecessarily spurred
her to action, and she decided to risk the waste of ninepence.

Disdaining the spiky pen and thick, black treacle which a
beneficent Government had provided, Tuppence drew out Tommy's
pencil which she had retained and wrote rapidly:  "Don't put in
advertisement. Will explain to-morrow." She addressed it to Tommy
at his club, from which in one short month he would have to
resign, unless a kindly fortune permitted him to renew his
subscription.

"It may catch him," she murmured.  "Anyway, it's worth trying."

After handing it over the counter she set out briskly for home,
stopping at a baker's to buy three penny-worth of new buns.

Later, in her tiny cubicle at the top of the house she munched
buns and reflected on the future.  What was the Esthonia
Glassware Co., and what earthly need could it have for her
services? A pleasurable thrill of excitement made Tuppence
tingle.  At any rate, the country vicarage had retreated into the
background again. The morrow held possibilities.

It was a long time before Tuppence went to sleep that night, and,
when at length she did, she dreamed that Mr. Whittington had set
her to washing up a pile of Esthonia Glassware, which bore an
unaccountable resemblance to hospital plates!

It wanted some five minutes to eleven when Tuppence reached the
block of buildings in which the offices of the Esthonia Glassware
Co. were situated.  To arrive before the time would look
over-eager. So Tuppence decided to walk to the end of the street
and back again. She did so.  On the stroke of eleven she plunged
into the recesses of the building.  The Esthonia Glassware Co. 
was on the top floor. There was a lift, but Tuppence chose to
walk up.

Slightly out of breath, she came to a halt outside the ground
glass door with the legend painted across it "Esthonia Glassware
Co."

Tuppence knocked.  In response to a voice from within, she turned
the handle and walked into a small rather dirty outer office.

A middle-aged clerk got down from a high stool at a desk near the
window and came towards her inquiringly.

"I have an appointment with Mr. Whittington," said Tuppence.

"Will you come this way, please."  He crossed to a partition door
with "Private" on it, knocked, then opened the door and stood
aside to let her pass in.

Mr. Whittington was seated behind a large desk covered with
papers. Tuppence felt her previous judgment confirmed.  There was
something wrong about Mr. Whittington.  The combination of his
sleek prosperity and his shifty eye was not attractive.

He looked up and nodded.

"So you've turned up all right?  That's good.  Sit down, will
you?"

Tuppence sat down on the chair facing him.  She looked
particularly small and demure this morning.  She sat there meekly
with downcast eyes whilst Mr. Whittington sorted and rustled
amongst his papers. Finally he pushed them away, and leaned over
the desk.