A smart young woman opened the door.

“I’ve come about the place,” said Tuppence.

“It’s a rotten place,” said the young woman without hesitation.  “Regular old cat—­always interfering.  Accused me of tampering with her letters.  Me!  The flap was half undone anyway.  There’s never anything in the waste-paper basket—­she burns everything.  She’s a wrong ’un, that’s what she is.  Swell clothes, but no class.  Cook knows something about her—­but she won’t tell—­scared to death of her.  And suspicious!  She’s on to you in a minute if you as much as speak to a fellow.  I can tell you——­”

But what more Annie could tell, Tuppence was never destined to learn, for at that moment a clear voice with a peculiarly steely ring to it called: 

“Annie!”

The smart young woman jumped as if she had been shot.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“It’s a young woman about the situation, ma’am.”

“Show her in then.  At once.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tuppence was ushered into a room on the right of the long passage.  A woman was standing by the fireplace.  She was no longer in her first youth, and the beauty she undeniably possessed was hardened and coarsened.  In her youth she must have been dazzling.  Her pale gold hair, owing a slight assistance to art, was coiled low on her neck, her eyes, of a piercing electric blue, seemed to possess a faculty of boring into the very soul of the person she was looking at.  Her exquisite figure was enhanced by a wonderful gown of indigo charmeuse.  And yet, despite her swaying grace, and the almost ethereal beauty of her face, you felt instinctively the presence of something hard and menacing, a kind of metallic strength that found expression in the tones of her voice and in that gimlet-like quality of her eyes.

For the first time Tuppence felt afraid.  She had not feared Whittington, but this woman was different.  As if fascinated, she watched the long cruel line of the red curving mouth, and again she felt that sensation of panic pass over her.  Her usual self-confidence deserted her.  Vaguely she felt that deceiving this woman would be very different to deceiving Whittington.  Mr. Carter’s warning recurred to her mind.  Here, indeed, she might expect no mercy.

Fighting down that instinct of panic which urged her to turn tail and run without further delay, Tuppence returned the lady’s gaze firmly and respectfully.

As though that first scrutiny had been satisfactory, Mrs. Vandemeyer motioned to a chair.

“You can sit down.  How did you hear I wanted a house-parlourmaid?”

“Through a friend who knows the lift boy here.  He thought the place might suit me.”

Again that basilisk glance seemed to pierce her through.

“You speak like an educated girl?”

Glibly enough, Tuppence ran through her imaginary career on the lines suggested by Mr. Carter.  It seemed to her, as she did so, that the tension of Mrs. Vandemeyer’s attitude relaxed.