The Secret Adversary | Page 6

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.
"Now, my dear young lady, let us come to business." His large face
broadened into a smile. "You want work? Well, I have work to offer
you. What should you say now to L100 down, and all expenses paid?"
Mr. Whittington leaned back in his chair, and thrust his thumbs into the
arm-holes of his waistcoat.
Tuppence eyed him warily.
"And the nature of the work?" she demanded.
"Nominal--purely nominal. A pleasant trip, that is all."
"Where to?"
Mr. Whittington smiled again.
"Paris."
"Oh!" said Tuppence thoughtfully. To herself she said: "Of course, if
father heard that he would have a fit! But somehow I don't see Mr.
Whittington in the role of the gay deceiver."
"Yes," continued Whittington. "What could be more delightful? To put
the clock back a few years--a very few, I am sure--and re-enter one of
those charming pensionnats de jeunes filles with which Paris
abounds----"

Tuppence interrupted him.
"A pensionnat?"
"Exactly. Madame Colombier's in the Avenue de Neuilly."
Tuppence knew the name well. Nothing could have been more select.
She had had several American friends there. She was more than ever
puzzled.
"You want me to go to Madame Colombier's? For how long?"
"That depends. Possibly three months."
"And that is all? There are no other conditions?"
"None whatever. You would, of course, go in the character of my ward,
and you would hold no communication with your friends. I should have
to request absolute secrecy for the time being. By the way, you are
English, are you not?"
"Yes."
"Yet you speak with a slight American accent?"
"My great pal in hospital was a little American girl. I dare say I picked
it up from her. I can soon get out of it again."
"On the contrary, it might be simpler for you to pass as an American.
Details about your past life in England might be more difficult to
sustain. Yes, I think that would be decidedly better. Then----"
"One moment, Mr. Whittington! You seem to be taking my consent for
granted."
Whittington looked surprised.
"Surely you are not thinking of refusing? I can assure you that Madame
Colombier's is a most high-class and orthodox establishment. And the

terms are most liberal."
"Exactly," said Tuppence. "That's just it. The terms are almost too
liberal, Mr. Whittington. I cannot see any way in which I can be worth
that amount of money to you."
"No?" said Whittington softly. "Well, I will tell you. I could doubtless
obtain some one else for very much less. What I am willing to pay for
is a young lady with sufficient intelligence and presence of mind to
sustain her part well, and also one who will have sufficient discretion
not to ask too many questions."
Tuppence smiled a little. She felt that Whittington had scored.
"There's another thing. So far there has been no mention of Mr.
Beresford. Where does he come in?"
"Mr. Beresford?"
"My partner," said Tuppence with dignity. "You saw us together
yesterday."
"Ah, yes. But I'm afraid we shan't require his services."
"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