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hear just what exactly you’re doing here.”
    “Here?” Lambert bleated. Since their last meeting, two years ago, his face had not lost its youthful ingenuousness.
    “Here in London. Here in my house. Here—”
    “Oh,
here!
My pocket was picked—on the boat train. Luckily,Mrs. Fletcher’s letter was in a different pocket, so I still had your address.”
    “Her letter?” Alec threw an accusatory glare at Daisy.
    “Don’t you remember, sir? After … after what happened, I wrote you in care of the Bureau to apologise, and I enclosed an apology addressed to Mrs. Fletcher. She kindly wrote back.”
    “So you came here because you have no money for a hotel?”
    Lambert blushed. “It’s worse than that, I’m afraid, sir. The thief took my passport as well as my money, and my credentials, too.”
    “You’re still with the FBI?”
    The blush deepened, even his ears reddening as he sheepishly put down his now-empty glass and pushed it away. “No, sir. I’m with the Treasury Department, Bureau of Internal Revenue, Prohibition Division.”
    “Then what the deuce are you doing in England?” Tommy gave the empty glass a pointed look. “Alcohol is not illegal here.”
    “I know that, sir.” Turning to Alec, the hapless Prohibition agent asked, “Sir, who is this guy … er, gentleman?”
    “Mr. Pearson is a solicitor—that is, a lawyer. You may place absolute trust in his discretion. Mrs. Pearson’s also, I believe.”
    “Oh yes, I shan’t breathe a word.” Madge was entranced.
    Lambert stood up, bowed to Madge, shook Tommy’s hand, and said solemnly, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am, sir. If Mr. Fletcher vouches for you, I guess that’s good enough for me. The thing is, I know we can’t enforce the Volstead Act here, not even for American citizens, but what we can do is find out who’s shipping the stuff to our bootleggers. Your British government says there’s no law stops us doing that.”
    “Outrageous!” sputtered Tommy. “Spying on our citizens? I shall speak to my MP.”
    “Member of Parliament,” Daisy explained to the American.
    “Kind of like a congressman? Well, I guess that’s your right, sir.”
    “But how do you do it, Mr. Lambert?” asked Madge. “Surely you can’t keep watch on every wine merchant in the country?”
    “Gee whiz, no, ma’am. We’re kind of shorthanded at best. I guess it’s OK to tell you. See, the Coast Guard’s gotten itself some new ships, fast ones, and they’re keeping the black ships on the move—”
    “Black ships?” Daisy queried.
    “That’s what they call the rumrunners, ma’am. There’re the freighters from Europe and Canada—they’re wholesalers—and the inshore boats that pick up the liquor out at sea, on Rum Row. But the Coast Guard’s disrupting business now, forcing the ships to keep moving so they can’t meet up. The rumrunners have started using radio to arrange new meeting places, but we’re listening in, so they have to transmit in code. Some of these bootleggers, the big guys, are sending contact men over here to arrange codes. Also to figure out how to pay without the risk of the cash being confiscated if they get caught.”
    “And your job is to follow the contact men?” Alec suggested.
    “That’s right, sir. They’re real tough guys, though,” he added despondently, “and your Customs took away my gun.”
    “I should hope so!” Tommy exclaimed. “This isn’t the Wild West, you know. Even the police are rarely armed.”
    Lambert came very close to pouting. “OK I guess, if that’s the way you do things.”
    “How do you propose to find these tough guys?” Alec asked.
    “The embassy’s supposed to help, but the public desk was closed when I got there and I didn’t have my credentials, so they told me to come back in the morning.”
    “Did you report your loss to the police?”
    “Yes, sir, I walked on over to Scotland Yard and asked for you, but I didn’t have—”
    “Your credentials, yes, I realise