from the road with a few grimy bushes to support the fiction of a front garden. Tommy paid off the taxi, and accompanied Tuppence to the front door bell. As she was about to ring it, he arrested her hand.
"What are you going to say?"
"What am I going to say? Why, I shall say—Oh dear, I don't know. It's very awkward."
"I thought as much," said Tommy with satisfaction. "How like a woman! No foresight! Now just stand aside, and see how easily the mere male deals with the situation." He pressed the bell. Tuppence withdrew to a suitable spot.
A slatternly-looking servant, with an extremely dirty face and a pair of eyes that did not match, answered the door.
Tommy had produced a note-book and pencil.
"Good morning," he said briskly and cheerfully. "From the Hampstead Borough Council. The new Voting Register. Mrs. Edgar Keith lives here, does she not?"
"Yaas," said the servant.
"Christian name?" asked Tommy, his pencil poised.
"Missus's? Eleanor Jane."
"Eleanor," spelt Tommy. "Any sons or daughters over twenty-one?"
"Naow."
"Thank you." Tommy closed the notebook with a brisk snap. "Good morning."
The servant volunteered her first remark:
"I though perhaps as you'd come about the gas," she observed cryptically, and shut the door.
