Mr. Beresford put down the Daily Mail, which he was reading, and applauded with somewhat unnecessary vigour.  He was politely requested by his colleague not to be an ass.

“Dash it all, Tommy, we’ve got to do something for our money.”

Tommy sighed.

“Yes, I fear even the dear old Government will not support us at the Ritz in idleness for ever.”

“Therefore, as I said before, we must do something.”

“Well,” said Tommy, picking up the Daily Mail again, “Do it.  I shan’t stop you.”

“You see,” continued Tuppence.  “I’ve been thinking——­”

She was interrupted by a fresh bout of applause.

“It’s all very well for you to sit there being funny, Tommy.  It would do you no harm to do a little brain work too.”

“My union, Tuppence, my union!  It does not permit me to work before 11 a.m.”

“Tommy, do you want something thrown at you?  It is absolutely essential that we should without delay map out a plan of campaign.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Well, let’s do it.”

Tommy laid his paper finally aside.  “There’s something of the simplicity of the truly great mind about you, Tuppence.  Fire ahead.  I’m listening.”

“To begin with,” said Tuppence, “what have we to go upon?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Tommy cheerily.

“Wrong!” Tuppence wagged an energetic finger.  “We have two distinct clues.”

“What are they?”

“First clue, we know one of the gang.”

“Whittington?”

“Yes.  I’d recognize him anywhere.”

“Hum,” said Tommy doubtfully, “I don’t call that much of a clue.  You don’t know where to look for him, and it’s about a thousand to one against your running against him by accident.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” replied Tuppence thoughtfully.  “I’ve often noticed that once coincidences start happening they go on happening in the most extraordinary way.  I dare say it’s some natural law that we haven’t found out.  Still, as you say, we can’t rely on that.  But there are places in London where simply every one is bound to turn up sooner or later.  Piccadilly Circus, for instance.  One of my ideas was to take up my stand there every day with a tray of flags.”

“What about meals?” inquired the practical Tommy.

“How like a man!  What does mere food matter?”

“That’s all very well.  You’ve just had a thundering good breakfast.  No one’s got a better appetite than you have, Tuppence, and by tea-time you’d be eating the flags, pins and all.  But, honestly, I don’t think much of the idea.  Whittington mayn’t be in London at all.”

“That’s true.  Anyway, I think clue No. 2 is more promising.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“It’s nothing much.  Only a Christian name—­Rita.  Whittington mentioned it that day.”

“Are you proposing a third advertisement:  Wanted, female crook, answering to the name of Rita?”