handle and walked into a small rather dirty outer office. A middle-aged clerk got down from a high stool at a desk near the window and came towards her inquiringly. "I have an appointment with Mr. Whittington," said Tuppence. "Will you come this way, please." He crossed to a partition door with "Private" on it, knocked, then opened the door and stood aside to let her pass in. Mr. Whittington was seated behind a large desk covered with papers. Tuppence felt her previous judgment confirmed. There was something wrong about Mr. Whittington. The combination of his sleek prosperity and his shifty eye was not attractive. He looked up and nodded.
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