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clean shaven, walking stick, homburg hat, no overcoat. Purposeful stride. Appearance of wealth. Does not look lost.
    The man turned into Craig’s Court. I wasn’t about to put my head around the corner and have Barker see me, but I had to wonder, who was this fellow and what business did he have with Barker on a Sunday?
    Casual acquaintances have joked with me about enjoying mysteries, as if when an enquiry agent’s assistant has time off he prefers to spend it reading Wilkie Collins. The truth is: I despise mysteries. They really get under my fingernails. I already have enough elements of my life that have no answers; I don’t require any more, thank you. True, I derive some satisfaction when we capture a criminal and prove without doubt that he has stepped outside of the law and deprived someone of their property and often their lives. That does not mean I would go looking for imaginary cases in my free time. Do barristers while away their evenings poring over legal briefs or do engineers read boiler manuals by candlelight, a cup of tea at their elbow? I rather think not.
    I was walking away with the intent to avoid my employer on the off chance that he himself might step out of the office to see what mischief I was getting into, when up ahead I saw a familiar sight. It was a white lace parasol just disappearing ahead of me into Northumberland Street. On any given day, of course, London teems with white parasols, and the chances of finding a particular girl under any one of them are far less than finding a pea under one of three walnut shells manipulated by a confidence trickster. However, I was twenty-two and sound of limb, and would have crossed London for the opportunity to flirt with a pretty girl. And so I gave chase, as any sane young man would.
    By the time I reached the corner and turned into Northumberland Street my quarry was well down the road. She was remarkably fleet of foot. Was it Sofia? The odds were almost astronomically against it. I was not so vain as to think she would hang about the area hoping for another chance to speak to me; almost vain enough, perhaps, but not quite. From where I trotted a hundred yards behind, the woman under the parasol could or could not be her. She was about the girl’s height, and was wearing a different dress, but then she would be wearing something different. This dress was almost fawn colored, and when she lifted her heels, her boots were white leather. The parasol was like a thousand others. Behind, I willed her to turn around and give me the slightest glimpse of her face, but then I’d never gotten a woman to do anything even by speaking. How did I expect it by willing it? She passed a small courtyard in front of the Northumberland Arms, and about twenty seconds later, I did so, as well.
    “Mr. Lancelyn, is it not?”
    I skidded to a halt and nearly fell on the cobblestones. My heart began beating faster, I could feel it in my breast. At one of the tables Sebastian Nightwine was just rising.
    Ahead of me, the girl turned the corner and disappeared.
    “It is Llewelyn, as I’m sure you are aware.”
    “Lancelyn, Llewelyn, no matter. I’ve never been good with names. Perhaps we should all be Welsh and call ourselves Jones.”
    “An excellent suggestion,” I replied. “You should pass it on to your friends in the government.”
    “That was an interesting reception at the docks. Mr. Barker’s idea, I take it.”
    “No, actually I’m the one with the Jewish friends these days.”
    “Ah. You’re not as callow as you were two years ago. Come have a seat. I’ll buy you a drink, or a cup of tea, if you prefer.”
    “Nothing for me, thank you. It might be poisoned.”
    Nightwine sighed. “I believe I can get through an entire conversation without killing someone, although you do try my patience. I suppose, like your employer, you feel you cannot break bread with the Bad, Bad Man.”
    “Something like that.”
    “Just sit down, then. We need to talk.”
    With