“Miss Spooner is just going to lunch,” said Keble-Keith, “and I want you to take her place on the reception desk. Within the next fifteen minutes, a large, swarthy man called Davidson will probably show up and it’s my guess that he will be a little cross. He will ask to see me and you will tell him that I’ve been called away to Paris unexpectedly and won’t be back for a month. At that point he will probably try to force his way into this office and you will — er — er. . . . Well, you will, won’t you, Ashwell?”
“Of c-course, sir. And it w-w-will be a pl-pleasure.”
“Good. And now could you ask Miss Willis to come in for a moment?”
If Ashwell was indistinguishable from several thousand City clerks, Miss Willis was indistinguishable from several tens of thousand City typists, middle-aged on
