Chapter 6

Sir Charles Whittaker's landlady informed us that he had not yet returned home from work. We waited in the carriage for over thirty minutes until his new conveyance finally drew up outside the row of houses. He alighted with a newspaper in one hand and a walking stick in the other. We were quite sure no one had followed us so I wasn't too concerned that Sir Charles didn't immediately invite us inside when we approached. He looked content to have this conversation on the pavement.

Cyclops had other ideas. "Mind if we come in? It's exposed out here."

"Is your life still in danger?" Sir Charles asked Matt.

"The shooter hasn't been caught," Matt said.

Sir Charles tucked the newspaper under his arm and led the way up the steps using his walking stick. He didn't need the stick. It was purely an affectation. It was a common accessory for men these days, but I was glad Matt never took to the trend.

Sir Charles asked the landlady to bring tea up to his parlor, but Matt declined. "We won't be staying long."

Upstairs, Duke remained on the landing where he could make sure the landlady didn't listen in, while Cyclops and Willie joined us in the parlor. Sir Charles deposited the newspaper he'd been carrying and leaned his walking stick against the chair.

"Is this about the missing wool magician?" he asked as he indicated we should sit.

"How do you know about him?" I asked.

"It's my job to know."

I waited but he gave nothing away with his smooth countenance and level gaze. "Do you know what happened to him?"

He hesitated before shaking his head. "No."

I was satisfied with that, but Matt wasn't. "Do you have an opinion?"

Sir Charles's smile returned. "Yes, but I prefer to keep it to myself for now. As it's only an opinion, it might serve to lead you down the wrong path in your investigation. Nobody wants that."

"If I find out you had anything to do with his disappearance, or withheld vital information, I'll see to it that your life is made uncomfortable."

Willie parted her jacket to reveal her gun. "Very uncomfortable."

Sir Charles put up his hands in surrender. "Noted. So, how may I help you?"

"You lied to us about meeting Coyle," Matt said. "You claimed you've only shared information with him one time. We happen to know you've met him more than that. Quite recently, in fact."

Sir Charles blinked rapidly, the only sign that he was caught off-guard. "Why do you say that?"

"You were seen."

"By whom?"

"It doesn't matter. Why did you lie to us?"

Sir Charles kept silent.

"What information have you been exchanging with him?" Matt pressed.

Sir Charles didn't respond.

"Do you work for him?"

"No!"

"Then tell us why you've been meeting with him in the dark in secret?"

Sir Charles stroked his top lip with the side of his forefinger and looked away.

Cyclops slammed his fist down on the table, splintering the polished wooden surface.

Sir Charles leapt to his feet. When he realized Cyclops wasn't going to slam his fist into his face, he sat again.

"Sorry," Cyclops muttered. "But I'm tired of the secrets. We want direct answers, and we know you can give them."

Willie clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't push him," she told Sir Charles. "You don't want to see him when he gets angry."

Cyclops eyed her sideways.

Poor Cyclops must be frustrated that he'd spent the day with us when he could have been with Catherine. Indeed, the situation with Catherine must be getting to him more than we realized. He never lashed out like this.

His frustration was understandable. Unless the Masons accepted him, his future with Catherine was uncertain. Cyclops wouldn't want her to be estranged from her family, and he could very well walk away from the relationship thinking he was doing what was best for her. Perhaps I should talk to him, or warn her.

Matt leaned forward. "I'll ask again, and this time I expect an answer. If not, Willie will shoot you in the foot."

I swallowed my gasp.

Willie withdrew her gun and rested it on her knee.

Sir Charles tugged on his collar and stretched out his neck. "Very well, I'll tell you. But it goes no further than this room. My superior must not know. Do you understand?"

Matt settled back in the chair. "Understood."

"You already know that I work for the Home Office in a surveillance capacity. I am told who to watch and report back my findings. For some years, I've been assigned to watch magicians and the people who support them."

"The collector's club," I said on a breath. "That's why you joined them."

"I infiltrated the club's inner sanctum, yes. But Coyle must have investigated me. He either discovered that I'm a spy for the Home Office or guessed. For some time, he has been forcing me to pass on information I learn about certain magicians to him."

"Forcing you how?" Matt asked.

"With threats to harm my mother. She lives alone in Basingstoke."

This was the first time he'd mentioned family. We'd wondered why he kept no photographs or private letters in his rooms. He must have wanted to keep his mother's existence a secret for this very reason—to keep her safe from people like Coyle.

"What information have you passed on to Coyle recently?" Matt asked. He showed no sign that Sir Charles's plight worried him, but I knew he wasn't unfeeling.

"I told him Pyke called on Mr. Charbonneau's residence."

I blew out a breath. Shortly after that visit, Coyle had seen us flying off on a carpet. He must have made the connection. "You could be responsible for Mr. Pyke's abduction!"

Sir Charles stiffened. "I am no more responsible than you, India."

My stomach rolled. He was right. If I hadn't made that spell, Mr. Pyke would not have come to any harm, if Coyle was indeed his kidnapper.

Matt rested his hand over mine. "That isn't fair," he growled.

"The point I'm trying to make is that if Coyle abducted him, he is responsible," Sir Charles said. "No one else. All you have to do is prove it was him and he will be in trouble with the law."

Willie snorted. "Sure. Let's prove it, shall we?" She snapped her fingers. "Just like that."

Sir Charles gripped the chair arm so hard his knuckles whitened. "The only reason I'm telling you this is because you can help me. Help get Coyle off my back."

"How?" Cyclops asked.

"Use the information I just gave you to have him arrested. You have contacts on the police force, Glass. Go to them and tell them what you know about Coyle."

Matt shook his head. "Coyle can't be touched without solid proof."

"Then get the proof!" Sir Charles scrubbed a hand over his mouth. It shook. "I'm sorry. Forgive my outburst. But I can't go on like this. The more information I pass on to Coyle, the more likely it is that my superiors will discover my betrayal. I'll be…removed from my position." He swallowed heavily and tugged on his collar again. "And if I refuse to give Coyle information, he'll hurt my mother. I am in a no-win situation. You're my only hope. I see that now."

"There's nothing we can do," Matt said.

"You have to try!"

"Why?" Matt snarled. "Why should we help you after you betrayed my wife to Coyle?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," I said quietly.

Sir Charles shot me a look of heartfelt gratitude as he released a shaky breath.

Matt, however, looked like a tower of pent-up energy. His finger tapped on his thigh and his chest rose and fell with his deep breaths. "We'll think about what we can do to help, but don't get your hopes up. I can see no way out of your predicament yet."

"Thank you, Glass. You're a man of honor and integrity."

"Don't thank me yet. Tell us what you know about India's secret spell."

Sir Charles blinked rapidly at the change of topic. "Considering Pyke was seen leaving Charbonneau's house, I assume they were working on a spell involving a carpet since rugs are his specialty. Is that correct, India?"

I hesitated, unsure how much to tell him.

Matt didn't hold back, however. "It was a flying spell. She made a carpet fly from here to Brighton, carrying four passengers."

Sir Charles's eyes widened. "Bloody hell."

"The spell was then stolen by Mrs. Trentham from Charbonneau's residence. Do you know if Coyle manipulated her into stealing it?"

Sir Charles shook his head. "We weren't watching her. We didn't even know she was a magician. That's something Coyle discovered on his own." He frowned. "If he has the new spell, and now also has Pyke, can he make another carpet fly?"

"It's doubtful," I said. "I don't think Pyke's magic is strong enough. He certainly couldn't make a rug fly with something heavy on it, like passengers. The rug needs solid supports to hold the extra weight and the spell must also be used in the supports by the relevant magician." I didn't tell him that I could do it without the assistance of Fabian or another magician. He didn't need to know how strong my magic was.

"That's a relief. I worried Coyle would use it as a flying device to…" He lifted his shoulders in a graceful shrug.

"To do what?"

"I don't know. What does one need flight for? Traveling quickly from one place to another, I suppose."

It would certainly prove lucrative for Coyle if he could commercialize the spell somehow. But there was also a more dangerous idea. The flying carpet could be used to drop a bomb on buildings below. I couldn't think why Coyle would want to do that, but I didn't pretend to know his schemes. He might do it simply to see if it could be done.

Or he might do it to gain himself more power.

* * *

I wasin need of cheering up after the long and worrying day we'd had, so I was glad when Lord Farnsworth arrived in time for dinner. His irreverent company was just the tonic I needed. It didn't matter what the conversation was about. As long as Lord Farnsworth was involved, I was bound to laugh.

Matt seemed to be in need of distraction too. Although he claimed he found his lordship irritating, I noticed he no longer tried to avoid him. In fact, he sought him out to engage him in conversation.

"I received a letter from your aunt today, Glass," Lord Farnsworth said over dinner.

We all looked to Aunt Letitia. "I don't remember sending you a letter," she said.

"It was from Lady Rycroft," he went on.

Willie made a sound of disgust in the back of her throat. "What did she want?"

"She invited me to dinner next week." He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "I won't be going, of course. I'm terrified of being trapped again."

"Trapped?" Brockwell asked. He had arrived at dinnertime too and we'd made a place for him at the table beside Willie.

"Charity dragged me into a room last night and closed the door. It was frightening. If India hadn't rescued me, I could have woken up this morning an engaged man."

"That doesn't sound like such a bad thing to me," Brockwell said. He was carefully slicing the pastry lid off his pie and did not look up so didn't see the effect his words had on Willie.

Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed.

Lord Farnsworth signaled to Bristow to pour more wine into his glass. "It depends on the fiancée. Charity Glass is not the sort of girl a fellow wishes to find himself shackled to." He made a small circle at his temple.

Brockwell set the pastry lid to one side on his plate and dug his fork into the pie, scooping meat out as if it were soup. "True enough. You ought to find yourself a girl more suited to your temperament, my lord."

"So I've been told by everyone at this table. Some even suggested a good friend." His amused gaze settled on Willie.

Her eyes widened even more, to the point where I was worried she'd do some damage to them.

Brockwell dipped his fork into the pie again. "A good friend is an excellent choice. A couple ought to be friends above all else. Marriage is for a lifetime, after all, and a lifetime is better spent with someone whose company you enjoy."

Lord Farnsworth nodded along. "You make an excellent point, Inspector. Marriage is for a long time. An awfully long time. One wouldn't want to spend it with a dull wife. I certainly wouldn't. What do you think, Willie?"

She grabbed her wine glass and drained it.

Duke chuckled. "So you'd look for a wife from outside your own rank?"

"Good lord, no." Lord Farnsworth looked horrified. "Glass might be brave enough to go against convention, but I'm not."

"I'm American," Matt said. "Convention doesn't apply to me." He winked at me.

"Quite right," Aunt Letitia said, as if she'd never objected to me marrying Matt.

Willie released a breath and resumed eating.

Brockwell finished with the inside of his pie, leaving just the shell which he proceeded to cut into. "What do you think, Willie? About marrying a good friend?"

"I, um…"

"I think she needs another drink," Duke said, signaling to Bristow.

Willie avoided answering Brockwell for the remainder of dinner, but she couldn't avoid him after it. I saw him take her hand and speak quietly to her before we filed out of the dining room. They did not join us in the drawing room.

Five minutes later, Bristow entered with glasses of brandy on a tray. "The detective inspector asked me to thank you for dinner and inform you that he was feeling unwell. He just left."

"How odd," Aunt Letitia said with a frown.

"And Miss Johnson has retired to her room," Bristow finished.

"Even odder." She waited for him to leave, before turning to me. "What do you think is going on, India?"

"I think we should wait for Willie to tell us in her own time."

Lord Farnsworth pouted. "She was supposed to go out with me tonight." He turned to Duke and Cyclops, standing side by side near the fireplace. "I don't suppose either of you will come? Willie and I found a rough looking place where they play high stakes poker and Baccarat. You'll fit right in."

Cyclops shook his head. "I have to work tomorrow."

"I'll go," Duke said. "I don't often go out without Willie. It'll make a nice change." He clapped Lord Farnsworth on the shoulder. "It'll just be two cowboys out on the town."

Lord Farnsworth plucked Duke's hand off his shoulder. "I am not a cowboy and this is not a town. But you're right. It will make a nice change to go out without Willie. She's rather a bad influence on me. She makes me spend far too much money."

"You should give your money to me to look after. I'll take good care of it for you."

"How odd. That's what she says."

They left and the rest of us retired for the evening. I yawned as I climbed into bed alongside Matt, snuggling against him for warmth.

He kissed the top of my head. "Are you all right, Mrs. Glass?"

"You mean aside from the fact that my head is spinning after our discussion with Sir Charles today?"

"It was an interesting conversation. Do you think we can trust him?"

"You're better off answering that than me. You're an excellent judge of character, Matt."

"So are you." He tilted my chin to make me look at him. "Don't doubt yourself, India. You've been marvelous today. This entire investigation has been driven by you. I'm just along for the ride."

I propped myself up on one elbow and peered down at him. "Don't think that. You're very important to this and to every investigation. And you're very important to me."

"I know that. But it's also good to know that if I wasn't here, you would be strong enough to carry on."

He turned off the lamp's gas, leaving me staring into the darkness, a hollow pit forming in my stomach.

* * *

With so little togo on, Matt sent Willie to watch Mr. Abercrombie for the day. If he was involved in the disappearance of Mr. Pyke, he might visit the place where the rug maker was being held. It was a slim chance, but it was something.

Matt and I called on Mrs. Pyke at her home. She directed us to the parlor at the front of the small house with its exquisite Oriental carpet. I wanted to remove my glove and run my fingers through its lush pile, but refrained and managed a gentle smile for Mrs. Pyke.

The poor woman looked as though she hadn't slept all night and her eyes were red from crying. I immediately informed her that we had no news of her husband, so as not to get her hopes up. Her face fell and she searched her apron pocket for a handkerchief.

"We're going to call on the police on your behalf," I said. "We have contacts at Scotland Yard."

She dabbed at the corners of her eyes. "That would be helpful. They'll take more notice of you than me."

"We'd like to look through your husband's things," Matt said. "His private papers, correspondence, diaries…"

"He's not much of a letter writer," she said apologetically. "And he doesn't keep a diary at home, just an appointment book at the shop." She excused herself and returned a few minutes later with a small collection of correspondence. "This is all he has. It's just a few letters from friends, I think. Take them with you. Show them to the police. Hopefully they'll help."

Matt accepted them and we left, promising to keep her informed as soon as we had some news. After checking up and down the street, Matt dashed quickly across the pavement to the waiting carriage. Duke held the door open for him and gave him a helping hand by shoving him in the back as he climbed in.

We read through Mr. Pyke's letters on the way to Scotland Yard. There were very few, only six, but two of them were in the same hand. I opened the first and checked the sender's name before reading the letter itself.

"Well, well, this is interesting. It's from Mrs. Fuller."

Matt leaned closer and peered over my shoulder. "What does it say?"

"Nothing of great importance. She talks about the weather and she wishes him a happy and healthy Christmas. She mentions someone named Harriet who is having trouble with a man named Wilson." The style was friendly. Friendlier than I'd expect from the wife of Mr. Pyke's business rival.

"What about the other letter?" Duke asked.

"It's dated two weeks later, just after Christmas. It gives an update on the Harriet and Mr. Wilson situation, whom it appears she saw on Christmas Day. The rest reads like gossip about mutual friends."

"Does she sign it in an intimate manner?"

"Not particularly. ‘Kindest regards, Rosamund Fuller.'" I wished we'd read these in Mrs. Pyke's presence so we could ask her about them. "I wonder if Mrs. Pyke knew her husband was corresponding with Mrs. Fuller."

Duke scoffed. "I doubt it. What man in his right mind would tell his wife he's friendly with a younger woman?"

I folded up the letter. "What have you two discovered?"

"Nothing of importance," Matt said.

Duke returned the letter he'd been reading to its envelope. "These are from friends who live outside the city. They don't say much about anything."

Woodall dropped us as close to the entrance of Scotland Yard as he could, but we were quite sure we hadn't been followed. The sergeant at the front desk sent a constable to fetch Detective Inspector Brockwell, even though we said we knew the way to his office.

I regretted not speaking to Brockwell about the case last night. I also regretted not speaking to him after he spoke to Willie. I was wildly curious about their conversation, but didn't think it was the right time or place to ask him now, at his place of work.

Brockwell greeted us and led us back to his office. He sat heavily behind the desk with a loud sigh. Like Mrs. Pyke, he looked tired, as though he'd hardly slept. While he usually looked scruffy, he was even more so today. He hadn't shaved and his tie was crooked and his hair unkempt. It took all my resolve not to lean across the desk and tidy him up.

"Is this about the Pyke case?" he asked.

Matt detailed all we knew about Mr. Pyke's disappearance, including the latest development of his private correspondence with Mrs. Fuller.

Despite his disheveled and tired appearance, Brockwell gave us his full attention. He always put work first, no matter what turmoil his private life was going through. "Do you think he ran off with her?" he asked.

"We saw her only yesterday," Matt said. "She hasn't left her husband, but she might know something, although why she hasn't told us already, I can't quite work out. We'll call on her after we leave here."

"So what can I do?"

"We'll get further if the investigation is official. You can send men to check railway stations and ports."

"And speak to Lord Coyle in an official capacity," I added.

Brockwell gave me an arched look. "Coyle won't answer to the likes of me. Besides, he won't say anything to incriminate himself. He's far too intelligent to make a mistake."

Matt stood. "Just do what you can."

Brockwell shook our hands then indicated the door. Matt and I filed out, but Duke hung back. "So what did you and Willie talk about last night?" he asked.

Brockwell scratched his sideburns. "I, uh, I don't want to talk about it."

Duke looked as though he'd argue, but I pushed past him to re-enter the office. "Leave him be, Duke. It's none of our business." I straightened Brockwell's tie then patted his shoulder. "But if you need to talk to me about anything, anything at all, Inspector, I am happy to do so. And so are Duke and Matt."

"Aye," Duke said.

Brockwell eyed Matt.

Matt cleared his throat.

"Aren't you?" I prompted.

"Of course," Matt said.

Once we were safely back in the carriage again, I asked him why he'd hesitated.

"Because I don't think I want an in-depth discussion about their romantic life. She's my cousin. Sometimes it's best to remain ignorant."

Duke didn't agree. "I want to know what it is so I can tell Willie she's wrong."

"Why do you think she's in the wrong?" I asked.

He looked at me as though I were a fool.

I sighed. He was right. It was probably Willie's fault. But I'd give her the benefit of the doubt, for now.

We drove to the Fullers' shop and residence, but I entered alone. Not because it was safer for Matt to remain in the carriage, but because this conversation required a woman's touch. I was immeasurably pleased to see Mr. Fuller wasn't present, although I suspected he was out the back in the workshop, as I could hear the whir of the machinery.

I waited for Mrs. Fuller to finish with a customer then approached the desk. She recognized me immediately and greeted me stiffly. If she was worried about the disappearance of her friend, she didn't show it. Indeed, she looked impatient. It was quite at odds with the pleasant way she addressed Mr. Pyke in her letters.

I glanced at the door to the workshop, but it remained closed. "I have a delicate question to ask you, Mrs. Fuller." I produced the two letters and handed them to her. "It's about these."

She turned them over, frowning. "They're addressed to Mr. Pyke with no return address." She shrugged. "Are you asking me to read the private correspondence of a man I hardly know?" She handed the letters back with a shake of her head. "I won't do it. I'm sorry, Mrs. Glass, but I don't see how it will help you."

I refused to accept the letters. "Don't you recognize them?"

She looked at the envelopes again. "The handwriting is familiar. Oh! I know who these are from."

"Yes. You."

"No, Mrs. Glass. They're from my mother-in-law."

I stared at her. "Your name isn't Rosamund?"

"No, it's Anne." She frowned. "Is that why you're here? Because you thought I was writing to Mr. Pyke? I can assure you, I hardly know him. My mother-in-law does, however, through her late husband. They were in the guild together and were on good terms." She glanced at the door to the workshop and leaned forward. "That all ended when my husband took over the business. Or so I thought."

"Do you know why your mother-in-law was writing to Mr. Pyke?"

"I can hazard a guess," she said carefully. She studied the letters again, looking tempted to read them now.

"When did you or your husband last see her?"

She clutched her throat as her gaze lifted to mine. "Two days ago. My God. Do you think they ran off together? My husband will be livid."

"Can you write down her address, please. We'll call on her now."

She scribbled the address on the bottom of a notepad and tore it off. Her gaze slid to the workshop door again as the machine slowed and finally stopped altogether. "He'll never forgive her."

I thanked her for the address and rose just as the workshop door opened. Mr. Fuller stood there like a sweating giant, his face red from the heat of the machinery and the stuffy room.

I hurried for the front door and stepped outside. The door swung closed, but not before I heard him ask his wife in a loud voice why I was there.

I gave Woodall the address. Thanks to his fast driving and expert knowledge of the city's streets, we arrived at the small house five minutes later. It was almost identical in every way to Mrs. Pyke's home, even down to a similar Oriental carpet in the parlor. This one wasn't as intricately designed, however, nor the pile as thick.

I was relieved to see Mrs. Fuller Senior, until I realized what it meant. She and Mr. Pyke hadn't run away together, which in turn meant it was more likely that something dreadful had befallen Mr. Pyke after all. I was glad for Mrs. Pyke's sake, though, in a way. From the beginning, I'd thought him devoted to his wife of twenty-two years and was relieved to see that belief held true. But was it better for her to be an abandoned wife or a widow?

"You and Mr. Pyke are friends," I said, showing her the letters after we introduced ourselves. "You write to one another."

Matt had joined me this time, but Duke remained outside. Matt suggested I do most of the talking, however, in the hope that she'd confide in a woman.

"We do, yes." The senior Mrs. Fuller was a tall, strongly built woman with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. She had a friendly face, but it was currently creased into a frown, her gaze wary. "What is this about?"

"Mr. Pyke has gone missing."

She covered her gasp with her hand. "Missing! How dreadful. His poor wife. She must be beside herself with worry."

"You didn't know?"

She shook her head as she studied the letters. "Did Mrs. Pyke give you these?"

"Yes. He kept them, although I'm not sure why. Do you know?" I asked gently.

Her frown deepened. "We're just friends. There's nothing more going on, if that's what you're implying. The man is married, for goodness' sake. Mrs. Pyke is a lovely woman, very sweet. She can't read, of course, but that doesn't mean she's a fool. If she doesn't know where her husband is, I don't know why you think I can help."

"We just thought that, uh, he might confide in you more than he did her. Do you have any letters from him?"

"I don't keep them in case…"

"In case of what?"

"In case my son finds them. He doesn't get along with Mr. Pyke and wouldn't understand our friendship. He'd think of it as a betrayal. That's why I never told him that Mr. Pyke and I kept up our correspondence, even after my husband died." She shook her head. "And now he's left, you say. I wouldn't have thought he'd do such a thing, not to his wife."

"We think he might have been kidnapped."

She blinked at me. "Why would anyone kidnap him? He's just a rug maker. He's not important."

Matt spoke for the first time. "Did you talk to him in the days leading up to his disappearance?"

She lifted her chin. "We just correspond by letter."

I was about to say something, but Matt touched my hand. "This is important, Mrs. Fuller. No one need know."

She blinked down at the letters in her lap. Her deep sigh deflated her chest and she sank into the sofa. "I saw him last Thursday at his shop. I rarely visit him, you understand, and nothing goes on there. We just talk. We're merely friends."

"We believe you," I said. "When you saw him, how did he seem?"

"Now that you mention it, he wasn't himself. He was worried about being followed."

"By a man, woman? Someone on foot?"

"It was a man with a touch of gray in his hair. He was in a private conveyance."

"Did he say what sort?" Matt asked. "The number of horses?"

She shook her head.

"What about the man? Was he slim?"

She frowned harder. "I don't know. He didn't say."

If he mentioned the gray hair to her but nothing else, it's possible it was the only distinguishing feature. That ruled out Coyle, but both Sir Charles and Mr. Abercrombie had gray through their hair. So did thousands of other men.

The front door suddenly crashed back on its hinges, making my heart leap into my throat. Matt shot to his feet as a red-faced Mr. Fuller stormed into the parlor, his hands balled into fists. He completely blocked the entrance so I couldn't see Duke.

"Sorry, Matt," came Duke's voice from behind Mr. Fuller. "I tried to stop him."

Mr. Fuller bared his teeth in a snarl, but it was directed at his mother, not Matt or me. "What's this about some letters, Ma? Why've you been writing to Pyke behind my back?"

Mrs. Fuller rose and took a single step toward her son. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing!"

"Let me explain."

"Explain what? That you betrayed me? Betrayed the memory of my father?"

"That's not—"

"Don't pretend nothing is going on."

"Nothing is going on," she said hotly.

"I said don't pretend!"

Mrs. Fuller clutched her throat. She looked close to tears.

Mr. Fuller stepped toward her, but Matt blocked his path. The rug maker's face turned even redder. "Get out of my way!"

"Not until you calm down," Matt said.

"Don't, Matt," I whispered. "This isn't our business."

He turned to me. "India—"

"Look out!"

Mr. Fuller swung a punch at Matt's face.