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 she knew a lot might have raised doubts in his mind.

“Anyway,” snarled Whittington, “you knew enough to come in here and plump out that name.”

“It might be my own name,” Tuppence pointed out.

“It’s likely, isn’t it, then there would be two girls with a name like that?”

“Or I might just have hit upon it by chance,” continued Tuppence, intoxicated with the success of truthfulness.

Mr. Whittington brought his fist down upon the desk with a bang.

“Quit fooling!  How much do you know?  And how much do you want?”

The last five words took Tuppence’s fancy mightily, especially after a meagre breakfast and a supper of buns the night before.  Her present part was of the adventuress rather than the adventurous order, but she did not deny its possibilities.  She sat up and smiled with the air of one who has the situation thoroughly well in hand.

“My dear Mr. Whittington,” she said, “let us by all means lay our cards upon the table.  And pray do not be so angry.  You heard me say yesterday that I proposed to live by my wits.  It seems to me that I have now proved I have some wits to live by!  I admit I have knowledge of a certain name, but perhaps my knowledge ends there.”

“Yes—­and perhaps it doesn’t,” snarled Whittington.

“You insist on misjudging me,” said Tuppence, and sighed gently.

“As I said once before,” said Whittington angrily, “quit fooling, and come to the point.  You can’t play the innocent with me.  You know a great deal more than you’re willing to admit.”

Tuppence paused a moment to admire her own ingenuity, and then said softly: 

“I shouldn’t like to contradict you, Mr. Whittington.”

“So we come to the usual question—­how much?”

Tuppence was in a dilemma.  So far she had fooled Whittington with complete success, but to mention a palpably impossible sum might awaken his suspicions.  An idea flashed across her brain.

“Suppose we say a little something down, and a fuller discussion of the matter later?”

Whittington gave her an ugly glance.

“Blackmail, eh?”

Tuppence smiled sweetly.

“Oh no!  Shall we say payment of services in advance?”

Whittington grunted.

“You see,” explained Tuppence still sweetly, “I’m so very fond of money!”

“You’re about the limit, that’s what you are,” growled Whittington, with a sort of unwilling admiration.  “You took me in all right.  Thought you were quite a meek little kid with just enough brains for my purpose.”

“Life,” moralized Tuppence, “is full of surprises.”

“All the same,” continued Whittington, “some one’s been talking.  You say it isn’t Rita.  Was it——?  Oh, come in.”