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window, and the thought uppermost in her mind was Sergeant Weintraub’s remark about the bag of cocaine that someone had slipped into her handbag.
    Had someone deliberately tried to bring about her arrest on a narcotics charge?
    Her musing ended when the stewardesses served breakfast. Nancy dismissed the unpleasant subjectfrom her mind as she ate and chatted with the Japanese electronics salesman sitting next to her. Presently the pilot announced over the intercom that the plane was approaching London. Twenty minutes later the passengers were disembarking into Terminal 3.
    Heathrow struck Nancy as the biggest, busiest, most confusing, most sprawling airport she had ever passed through. There seemed to be a large number of young people and news cameramen everywhere she looked. The corridors seemed interminable, and one of the moving walkways had broken down. But the passport inspection was conducted with typical British courtesy, and her luggage was simply waved through Her Majesty’s Customs with a cheery smile of welcome.
    Nancy was pushing a cart through what she hoped was the final corridor leading to the terminal exit when a voice called out, “ ’Oi there, Red!”
    No one at home ever called her that—her hair shone too lustrously golden for such a monochromatic nickname. Besides, why would any cockney be hailing Nancy Drew?
    Curiosity turned her head, nevertheless. A door had just opened and a face was grinning out at her from a room off the corridor. It was Freddie Isham, the Crowned Heads’ bass player!
    “Stone the crows! Wotcher doin’ ’ere in England, luvvie?”
    Freddie was a jolly, hulking teddy bear with aswarthy touch of West Indian blood, easily the most good-natured and likeable of the group.
    “Just landed, what does it look like?” Nancy grinned back, pointing to her luggage cart.
    Freddie reached his big paw out to draw her into the room. “I was ‘avin’ a dekko for our chauffeur, and look ’oo turned up!” he announced proudly.
    “Blimey, you must be telepathic!” chortled Bobo Evans. He and Adam Muir enthusiastically welcomed the American teenager.
    The room seemed full of helmeted policemen. They were obviously preparing to buck the crowd of fans and escort the Crowned Heads out of the terminal as soon as their limousine was in position at the door. Nancy suddenly understood why she had seen all those young people and news cameramen drifting so expectantly about the airport.
    Then her eyes fell on Lance Warrick—and her heart flipped. There was no mistaking the glint in his eyes. He wasn’t just turning on the charm for another groupie, he was genuinely delighted to see her!
    “Nancy, me ould luv!” he cried, and pushed past several bobbies to enfold her in his arms.
    “Whoa—hey!” Turning her cheek to his kiss, she laughingly disengaged from his embrace. But there was no mistaking the effect on her pulse.
    Over Lance’s shoulder, Nancy glimpsed a look of vexation on Jane Royce’s stylishly pretty face.
    “Don’t tell me someone’s meeting you?” saidLance. “Never mind. If there is, the poor chump’s out of luck! You’re riding into town with us!”
    Soon they were speeding along the left-hand side of the highway toward central London in a limousine long and glossy enough for the Royal Family.
    Lance had a townhouse in Chelsea and wanted Nancy to be his guest. But she insisted on taking the room Mrs. Harwood had booked for her at Claridge’s Hotel in the snazzy Mayfair district of London’s West End.
    “All right, my pet. But you’re lunching with me, and let’s have no backchat!”
    “But Lance darling, you have all sorts of press interviews set up for this afternoon,” wailed Jane Royce. “And I’ve laid on a business meeting with the record company about your next video.”
    “So plead jet lag and reschedule.” Turning to the American girl, he went on, “One o’clock sharp, then, right luv?”
    Nancy smiled as the Claridge’s doorman held open the