Tommy felt that, thanks to Mr. Carter, he understood the position fairly accurately.  With the fatal document in the hands of Mr. Brown, public opinion would swing to the side of the Labour extremists and revolutionists.  Failing that, the battle was an even chance.  The Government with a loyal army and police force behind them might win—­but at a cost of great suffering.  But Tommy nourished another and a preposterous dream.  With Mr. Brown unmasked and captured he believed, rightly or wrongly, that the whole organization would crumble ignominiously and instantaneously.  The strange permeating influence of the unseen chief held it together.  Without him, Tommy believed an instant panic would set in; and, the honest men left to themselves, an eleventh-hour reconciliation would be possible.

“This is a one-man show,” said Tommy to himself.  “The thing to do is to get hold of the man.”

It was partly in furtherance of this ambitious design that he had requested Mr. Carter not to open the sealed envelope.  The draft treaty was Tommy’s bait.  Every now and then he was aghast at his own presumption.  How dared he think that he had discovered what so many wiser and clever men had overlooked?  Nevertheless, he stuck tenaciously to his idea.

That evening he and Albert once more penetrated the grounds of Astley Priors.  Tommy’s ambition was somehow or other to gain admission to the house itself.  As they approached cautiously, Tommy gave a sudden gasp.

On the second floor window some one standing between the window and the light in the room threw a silhouette on the blind.  It was one Tommy would have recognized anywhere!  Tuppence was in that house!

He clutched Albert by the shoulder.

“Stay here!  When I begin to sing, watch that window.”

He retreated hastily to a position on the main drive, and began in a deep roar, coupled with an unsteady gait, the following ditty: 

          I am a Soldier A jolly British Soldier;
   You can see that I’m a Soldier by my feet . . .

It had been a favourite on the gramophone in Tuppence’s hospital days.  He did not doubt but that she would recognize it and draw her own conclusions.  Tommy had not a note of music in his voice, but his lungs were excellent.  The noise he produced was terrific.

Presently an unimpeachable butler, accompanied by an equally unimpeachable footman, issued from the front door.  The butler remonstrated with him.  Tommy continued to sing, addressing the butler affectionately as “dear old whiskers.”  The footman took him by one arm, the butler by the other.  They ran him down the drive, and neatly out of the gate.  The butler threatened him with the police if he intruded again.  It was beautifully done—­soberly and with perfect decorum.  Anyone would have sworn that the butler was a real butler, the footman a real footman—­only, as it happened, the butler was Whittington!