Agatha Christie Collection - 3 Novels And 25 Short Stories. Agatha Christie

There were beads of perspiration on his brow. He was evidently in a state of overmastering fear. And yet he did not strike her as the kind of man who would be afraid to meet death!

      “Yes?” Her grave eyes met his inquiringly.

      He stood looking at her with a kind of desperate irresolution.

      “It must be!” he muttered to himself. “Yes--it is the only way.” Then aloud he said abruptly: “You are an American?”

      “Yes.”

      “A patriotic one?”

      The girl flushed.

      “I guess you’ve no right to ask such a thing! Of course I am!”

      “Don’t be offended. You wouldn’t be if you knew how much there was at stake. But I’ve got to trust some one--and it must be a woman.”

      “Why?”

      “Because of ‘women and children first.’ “ He looked round and lowered his voice. “I’m carrying papers--vitally important papers. They may make all the difference to the Allies in the war. You understand? These papers have GOT to be saved! They’ve more chance with you than with me. Will you take them?”

      The girl held out her hand.

      “Wait--I must warn you. There may be a risk--if I’ve been followed. I don’t think I have, but one never knows. If so, there will be danger. Have you the nerve to go through with it?”

      The girl smiled.

      “I’ll go through with it all right. And I’m real proud to be chosen! What am I to do with them afterwards?”

      “Watch the newspapers! I’ll advertise in the personal column of the Times, beginning ‘Shipmate.’ At the end of three days if there’s nothing--well, you’ll know I’m down and out. Then take the packet to the American Embassy, and deliver it into the Ambassador’s own hands. Is that clear?”

      “Quite clear.”

      “Then be ready--I’m going to say good-bye.” He took her hand in his. “Good-bye. Good luck to you,” he said in a louder tone.

      Her hand closed on the oilskin packet that had lain in his palm.

      The Lusitania settled with a more decided list to starboard. In answer to a quick command, the girl went forward to take her place in the boat.

      CHAPTER I - The Young Adventurers, Ltd.

      “TOMMY, old thing!”

      “Tuppence, old bean!”

      The two young people greeted each other affectionately, and momentarily blocked the Dover Street Tube exit in doing so. The adjective “old” was misleading. Their united ages would certainly not have totalled forty-five.

      “Not seen you for simply centuries,” continued the young man. “Where are you off to? Come and chew a bun with me. We’re getting a bit unpopular here--blocking the gangway as it were. Let’s get out of it.”

      The girl assenting, they started walking down Dover Street towards Piccadilly.

      “Now then,” said Tommy, “where shall we go?”

      The very faint anxiety which underlay his tone did not escape the astute ears of Miss Prudence Cowley, known to her intimate friends for some mysterious reason as “Tuppence.” She pounced at once.

      “Tommy, you’re stony!”

      “Not a bit of it,” declared Tommy unconvincingly. “Rolling in cash.”

      “You always were a shocking liar,” said Tuppence severely, “though you did once persuade Sister Greenbank that the doctor had ordered you beer as a tonic, but forgotten to write it on the chart. Do you remember?”

      Tommy chuckled.

      “I should think I did! Wasn’t the old cat in a rage when she found out? Not that she was a bad sort really, old Mother Greenbank! Good old hospital--demobbed like everything else, I suppose?”

      Tuppence sighed.

      “Yes. You too?”

      Tommy nodded.

      “Two months ago.”

      “Gratuity?” hinted Tuppence.

      “Spent.”

      “Oh, Tommy!”

      “No, old thing, not in riotous dissipation. No such luck! The cost of living--ordinary plain, or garden living nowadays is, I assure you, if you do not know----”

      “My dear child,” interrupted Tuppence, “there is nothing I do NOT know about the cost of living. Here we are at Lyons’, and we will each of us pay for our own. That’s it!” And Tuppence led the way upstairs.

      The place was full, and they wandered about looking for a table, catching odds and ends of conversation as they did so.

      “And--do you know, she sat down and CRIED when I told her she couldn’t have the flat after all.” “It was simply a BARGAIN, my dear! Just like the one Mabel Lewis brought from Paris----”

      “Funny scraps one does overhear,” murmured Tommy. “I passed two Johnnies in the street to-day talking about some one called Jane Finn. Did you ever hear such a name?”

      But at that moment two elderly ladies rose and collected parcels, and Tuppence deftly ensconced herself in one of the vacant seats.

      Tommy ordered tea and buns. Tuppence ordered tea and buttered toast.

      “And mind the tea comes in separate teapots,” she added severely.

      Tommy sat down opposite her. His bared head revealed a shock of exquisitely slicked-back red hair. His face was pleasantly ugly--nondescript, yet unmistakably the face of a gentleman and a sportsman. His brown suit was well cut, but perilously near the end of its tether.

      They were an essentially modern-looking couple as they sat there. Tuppence had no claim to beauty, but there was character and charm in the elfin lines of her little face, with its determined chin and large, wide-apart grey eyes that looked mistily out from under straight, black brows. She wore a small bright green toque over her black bobbed hair, and her extremely short and rather shabby skirt revealed a pair of uncommonly dainty ankles. Her appearance presented a valiant attempt at smartness.

      The tea came at last, and Tuppence, rousing herself from a fit of meditation, poured it out.

      “Now then,” said Tommy, taking a large bite of bun, “let’s get up-to-date. Remember, I haven’t seen you since that time in hospital in 1916.”

      “Very well.” Tuppence helped herself liberally to buttered toast. “Abridged biography of Miss Prudence Cowley, fifth daughter of Archdeacon Cowley of Little Missendell, Suffolk. Miss Cowley left the delights (and drudgeries) of her home life early in the war and came up to London, where she entered an officers’ hospital. First month: Washed up six hundred and forty-eight plates every day. Second month: Promoted to drying aforesaid plates. Third month: Promoted to peeling potatoes. Fourth month: Promoted to cutting bread and butter. Fifth month: Promoted one floor up to duties of wardmaid with mop and pail. Sixth month: Promoted to waiting at table. Seventh month: Pleasing appearance and nice manners so striking that am promoted to waiting on the Sisters! Eighth month: Slight check in career. Sister Bond ate Sister Westhaven’s egg! Grand row! Wardmaid clearly to blame! Inattention in such important matters cannot be too highly censured. Mop and pail again! How are the mighty fallen! Ninth month: