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live right in the village, but somewhere west of town.”
    During the interval till dinner arrived, Lord Edwin confined his conversation to his niece, and Mr. Robertson wrote something in a little black notebook. Figuring out his day’s profit, very likely. Once a steaming plate of mutton sat before him, however, Lord Edwin gave up his pretensions to snobbery and became expansive.
    “What line of trade are you in, Mr. Robertson?” he asked.
    “Drapery.”
    Mary Anne was hard put to account for the leap of interest in her uncle’s eyes. So was Mr. Robertson.
    “Drapery, you say.” His fingers tapped his cheek in a telltale way that caused his niece to wonder. “Woolens, muslins, silks …?”
    “Yes,” Mr. Robertson said, and lifted his knife and fork, both of which he handled like a gentleman.
    “No need to ask further why you’re visiting Mr. Vulch, then,” Lord Edwin said. “No secret hereabouts, he imports silk.” He smiled to himself at that clever use of “import,” to denote his acceptance of the practice. Mr. Robertson was no longer despised. He had become a person of great interest, one to be courted as a possible purchaser. Of course, the proposition must be put forward discreetly. Fitch must act as liaison man.
    Mary Anne wished to share Mr. Robertson’s attention and said, “If you’ve come to buy the latest shipment, I fear your trip was in vain. It was stolen last night during the storm. The empty lugger was grounded on a sandbar just in front of my uncle’s property. When the customs men searched it this morning, the load was gone. They say in the village that Vulch hasn’t got it.”
    “Right in front of your property?” Robertson asked swiftly.
    “On our very doorstep,” she confirmed. She certainly had his attention now. His eyes were sparkling with curiosity.
    “Have you any idea who might have taken it?”
    “Vulch is the slyest man in the parish,” Lord Edwin announced. “He has it, certainly. What would a thousand ells of silk bring in London?”
    Mr. Robertson didn’t blink an eye when his companion announced the exact size of the load, but he noticed it. “It would depend on the quality,” he said.
    “But on the average. Say, for a pretty good-looking lot,” Lord Edwin pressed.
    “Approximately a thousand pounds,” he replied, and watched from under his lashes as Lord Edwin smiled benignly.
    “A thousand pounds, eh? Heh, heh. Old Vulch will never miss it. He’s rich as Croesus, the old crook.”
    Mr. Robertson still remained impassive at this revealing speech. Why should he speak of Vulch “never missing it” if Vulch had the stuff? “I’m very interested in recovering the load,” he said. “In fact, I’m thinking of offering a reward—say ten percent on top of the purchase price. I can hardly put such a notice in the journals, since smuggling is illegal, but you might spread the word around.”
    Lord Edwin’s fingers patted his cheek. “I’ll be sure to tell anyone I’m speaking to.” He smiled warmly.
    “This is the prime month for selling silk, with the season in progress. I have many orders to be filled. If I don’t deliver, I’ll lose my customers’ future business.”
    “Yes, yes, I see your problem. Demmed awkward situation for you.”
    “That’s why I rushed down to Dymchurch to look into the matter,” Mr. Robertson said, and immediately regretted it. The young girl didn’t say much, but she was sharp as a tack.
    Mary Anne lifted her eyes and regarded him curiously.
    London was a good five or six hours from Dymchurch. Mr. Robertson must have left by noon—and the silk would hardly have had time to reach him. How did he know it wasn’t en route?
    He rushed on to eradicate her frown. “I thought I might meet the wagon along the way,” he added.
    “I’m sure you’ll recover it,” Lord Edwin said genially. “It can’t have gone far, what? You’ll be putting up with Vulch, will you—in case I get a line on who has the