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– should you chance to come across him – will ken for certain that ye come from me.’ His voice wavered, then strengthened. ‘Also – also it may perhaps help you in trouble.’
    ‘Or may do jist the opposite,’ Wally muttered, but only Is heard him. Next moment he was carefully piloting the visitor to the outer door amid friendly goodnight greetings.
    When Wally returned, ‘Who was that feller?’ demanded Is. ‘Somehow – I dunno why – his voice put me in mind of Mr van Doon, what used to lodge with me and Penny.’
    The two others looked at one another.
    ‘She’ll have to know,’ said Wally.
    ‘I reckon so,’ agreed his father. ‘Daughter, that was his majesty.’
    ‘The king himself!’ breathed Is. ‘Old King Dick! Well I never!’
    ‘Since his wife died he don’t have no heart for public doings,’ explained Wally. ‘But he’s took a rare shine to my da, likes to come around every week or so for a chinwag. And – now his boy’s run off too – there ain’t much heart left at all in the poor cove.’
    ‘Reckon he’s just pining away,’ agreed Mr Greenaway, sighing. ‘So you see, my dearie, there’s a rare need to seek out that young rapscallion. First, to keep his poor da from dying – ’
    ‘And ’cos he’s the prince? The next king? Croopus, I should justabout think so. You’d think his dad’d have all the army out searching – offer half his crown, – summat like that.’
    ‘No, child. He daren’t. He daren’t let it be known that the prince is lost. For then there’d be threats, once it’s out – demands for ransom, real or false.’
    ‘But how could he jist go ?’
    ‘He always liked to dress as an ordinary boy, go to an ordinary school, have friends who weren’t lords or princes, but just boys he met in the street.’
    ‘Same as his dad,’ commented Is. ‘I get it. The poor gemman’s in a real fix. Can’t even stand asking at Charing Cross, like Uncle Hose.’
    ‘But if the boy is not found soon – and suppose his majesty should die of grief, which I reckon could happen . . .’
    ‘What did the queen die of?’ Is demanded.
    ‘Oh, she died of measles, poor lady, before the boy vanished. She was a deal younger than the king – he was very fond of her. He’s a lonesome chap.’
    ‘Lucky he can doddle round here for a bit of cheer,’ remarked Is, and gave a great yawn. Suddenly she felt lonely herself, and missed Figgin dreadfully.
    ‘You’re fit for bed, daughter,’ said Mr Greenaway kindly, and Wally expertly prepared her a nest of tow, packed into a sail slung between two joists. ‘Where’, as he explained, ‘the rats won’t bother ye.’
    Journal of Is
    Well fancy me bein ast to find His Nab’s boy. Fat ol chans, I rekin. Like lookin fer a woodlows in a timber yard. Wally an his Da seem rite desint coves too bad I kint stop here but Seems I gotto go on Northards. Wonder how? on a ship mebbe. Hope Figin don’t pine & Pen feeds him enuf. That poor king lookt reel sad.

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    Boys and girls come out to play
    The moon is shining as bright as day
    Up the ladder and over the wall
    A halfpenny loaf will serve us all . . .
    Is, next day, was eager to set out on her journey to the north country, and somewhat irked that both Greenaways, father and son, insisted that she must remain with them until the king had sent round his token.
    Meanwhile, though, it was agreed that she might as well roam the streets of London, keeping her eyes and ears wide open, dropping questions here and there about her cousin Arun, picking up any hints or clues that might possibly come her way relating to the unknown fate of the missing children.
    As Uncle Hose had done, she began at Charing Cross. There she loitered for several hours, studying all the people who hurried by, on foot, on horseback, in cabs, or in coaches.
    One thing struck her at once, and this was how very, very few children there were to be seen, in comparison with the days when she had lived in London. She