22

P enelope spent the next morning struggling to concentrate on running the Foundling House. There was nothing on her plate that was unusual, and issues such as which supplier to use for the next order for towels were not demanding enough to pull her mind from the treadmill of her thoughts.

When she'd discovered Dick missing, she'd felt in some way personally responsible. Logically she knew no blame attached to her, yet still she'd felt as if somehow she should have prevented it.

Losing Jemmie had only intensified the feeling. In murdering his mother and taking the boy, Smythe and Grimsby—and by extension Alert—had struck directly at her. At that point, the investigation had become very personal.

Now, with so many avenues exhausted or closed to them for one reason or another, a species of frustration laced with dread rode her, consuming her mind.

They had to—simply had to—find and rescue Jemmie and Dick.

Yet rack her brain though she might, she couldn't think of anything they could do, couldn't see any way forward.

"Any news of those two boys, ma'am?"

She looked up, finding a smile, albeit a brief one, for Mrs. Keggs. "Unfortunately not."

That redoubtable matron sighed and shook her gray head. "It's a worry—two innocents like that in the hands of a murderer."

"Indeed." Knowing she had to for the sake of staff morale, Penelope summoned a confident expression. "We—myself, Mr. Adair, Inspector Stokes, and others—are doing all we can to locate Dick and Jemmie."

"Aye, and it's a relief to know they haven't been forgotten." Mrs. Keggs clasped her hands. "We'll all be praying you succeed, and soon."

With a nod, Mrs. Keggs departed.

All confidence fading, Penelope grimaced at the empty doorway. "As will I, Keggs. As will I." Praying, it seemed, was all she could do.

"I can't think of anything." Stokes, pacing across his office, shot a sharp glance at Barnaby, perched once again on the edge of his desk. "Can you?"

Barnaby shook his head. "We've been through it a hundred times. Smythe has the boys, and unless the Almighty decides to take a hand we've no prospect of locating him in the short term."

"And the short term is all we've got."

"Indeed. Alert…now we have a better feeling for the game he's playing, I'm more confident we'll identify him—in time." Barnaby's voice hardened. "Again, it's ‘in time.' Montague sent a message this morning—he's checked enough to learn that every one of our eleven gentlemen suspects is in debt to some degree. Given their ages, and that they're all bachelors, that's not particularly surprising. However, how significant that debt might be will depend on their individual circumstances, and that Montague hasn't yet had time to assess. He says that'll take days, at least."

Stokes grimaced. "None of my contacts has come up with any hint of any of the eleven being involved in shady dealings."

Barnaby shook his head. "I don't think Alert will have stooped to petty crime, or even associated with criminals in the past. He's clever and careful, even if he is growing increasingly cocky."

Stokes grunted, still pacing. "He has the right to feel cocky. So far, he's trumped us at every turn."

Barnaby made no reply. For the first time in his investigative career he was truly stumped, at least on the subject of locating the boys. Alert he would pursue and eventually catch, but rescuing the boys…

He'd made a promise to Jemmie's mother, and to the boy himself. Losing Jemmie—having the boy snatched away so that he couldn't fulfill his promises—lay like a leaden weight on his soul, on his honor.

On top of that, the loss of Dick and Jemmie was making Penelope fret, more than he'd dreamed possible.

Like him, she didn't deal well with failure.

And this time failure was staring them in the face.

Stokes continued to pace. For all of them, being forced to wait without anything to do, knowing the boys were out there somewhere, was eating at their nerves. And time was running out. Now the boys had burgled houses alongside Smythe, he, knowing they were being looked for, might well view them as potential threats.

Now that Alert had executed his plan and pulled off his burglaries, even if they'd only learned of one…

Abruptly Barnaby refocused on Stokes. "Could Smythe have done eight burglaries in one night?"

Halting, Stokes blinked at him. "With two boys? No."

"No? Definitely no?"

Stokes saw what he meant. His face lit. "No, damn it—it's not physically possible. Which means if Alert is adhering to his original series of eight burglaries—"

"And why wouldn't he be, given his scheme appears to be working perfectly?"

Stokes nodded. "Then he has…at least three more burglaries to do."

"Five's the maximum in one night?"

"Four's more like it. Especially if he's having to use boys for them all, which according to Grimsby is the case."

"So Alert's series of burglaries are currently a work in progress. He's not finished—which means we have at least one more night, and possibly four more burglaries during which they might be caught."

Stokes grimaced. "I wouldn't count on Smythe making a mistake."

"It doesn't have to be him."

Stokes raised his brows. "The boys?"

"There's always a chance. And if there's a chance, there's hope." Barnaby thought for a minute, then stood and picked his coat up off the chair. "I'm going to see a man about another sort of chance."

"That's all he told you? And you let him go?" Penelope looked at Stokes with transparent disgust.

Stokes shrugged and reached for another pikelet. "He'll tell me if anything useful comes from whatever hare he's gone to chase. Meanwhile, with more burglaries pending, I've enough to think about."

Penelope humphed. They—she, Stokes, and Griselda—were once again gathered in Griselda's parlor. Today, Griselda had made pikelets, which Penelope hadn't had since she'd been in the nursery. It was comforting to sit curled on Griselda's sofa, a mug of tea in her hand, and nibble and sip.

And share her despondency.

"Joe and Ned Wills dropped by this morning," Griselda said. "No news, but they said the whole East End has its eyes and ears open. Once Smythe lets the boys go, we'll have them within hours."

Stokes sighed. "He won't."

"He won't let them go?" Penelope stared at him.

His expression grim, Stokes shook his head. "He knows we're searching for them. He'll either keep them and use them in more burglaries, or he'll get rid of them in such a way that they won't pose any threat to him. Perhaps take them to Deptford or Rotherhithe, make them apprentices, or cabin boys on coal haulers. He'll get money for handing them over, and at the same time ensure they won't be telling tales to anyone who'll listen any time soon."

A knock on the street door took Griselda downstairs; she returned with Barnaby in her wake.

To Penelope, he seemed more intent than she'd expected. He helped himself to three pikelets and Griselda handed him a mug of tea. He sipped as she said, "We were just discussing what Smythe will do with the boys. Stokes thinks he might put them out as apprentices."

She glanced at Stokes. "You don't think he'll kill them?" The nightmare that lurked in the back of her mind.

Stokes met her gaze steadily. "I can't say he won't. If he feels they pose a real threat to him, he might." He looked at Barnaby. "Where have you been?"

Barnaby lowered his mug. "Checking with Lord Winslow—he's one of the law lords. If it can be proved the boys, as minors operating under an adult's thumb, were forced to burgle houses against their wishes—and we can prove that by personal testimonies including mine and that of Miss Ashford here—then they'll be excused the crime and can bear witness against their oppressor."

Stokes's expression grew grimmer. "So if we find them, they will indeed pose a threat to Smythe."

Barnaby nodded. He met Penelope's eyes. "They'll be regarded as innocent, if we can find them. But we need to find them soon, and get them out of Smythe's hands. He might not know what ‘under duress' means, that the boys can testify against him without implicating themselves, but they know too much and, like Grimsby, Smythe will know all about making bargains with the police—he'll assume the boys will be encouraged to tell all they know in return for lighter sentences." Sober, he held her gaze. "Which means that whichever way Smythe thinks about it, once Alert's burglaries are over, Jemmie and Dick are very real threats to him."

That summation, its implication, settled like a grim reality upon them.

They went over all they knew yet again. Unfortunately, knowing more burglaries would take place didn't help in doing anything about them, or in locating Smythe and his charges.

"Alert really has tied this up tight." Stokes set down his mug. "He's anticipated what we, the police, will do, and from the first worked around us."

They'd talked themselves to a standstill again. Penelope glanced out the window and saw that the dull day had closed in to an even duller evening. She sighed; setting down her mug, she rose. "I have to go. I've another fund-raising dinner tonight."

Barnaby scanned her face. Setting down his mug, he rose, too. "I'll see you home."

Again they had to walk past the church with its cemetery alongside to reach the main road and find a hackney. Once in the carriage rattling toward Mount Street, Barnaby studied Penelope's profile, then closed his hand about one of hers, lifted it to his lips and lightly kissed her fingers.

She shot him a sidelong, questioning glance.

He smiled. "Where's this dinner?"

"Lord Abingdon's, in Park Place." She sighed, looking forward. "Portia arranges all these affairs—and then goes off to the country with Simon and leaves me to attend them!" She paused, then went on, "I've never missed her so much as I do now. I hate having to concentrate on social niceties, on polite conversation, when there's something so much more important to attend to."

Soothingly stroking her fingers, he said, "In reality there's nothing we can do tonight. We have no idea when Alert will attempt his next burglaries, whether he'll spread them out over more than one night—we don't even know how many more of the eight Smythe has yet to do. If Alert is well connected with the police, he'll know they aren't going to act until they hear back from the marquess about that urn. And even then what are they going to do? From the police's point of view—the governors' and Peel's—it's a devilishly difficult situation."

She put her head back against the squabs. "I know. And Lord Abingdon is a kindly sort who helps us on several fronts. I can't truly begrudge him the evening." After a moment, she added, "Unfortunately, Mama can't attend—she heard this morning that an old friend is failing and has gone off to Essex to see her before we have to leave for the Chase."

Time was running out on more than one front. "I know Abingdon quite well. I helped him resolve a minor difficulty some years ago." He caught her eyes when she looked at him. "I'll escort you tonight, if you like."

She looked at him for a long moment, studying his eyes, his face, then her lips lightly curved. "Yes. I'd like."

He smiled. Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers again. "I'll come for you at…what? Seven?"

Her smile deepening, she nodded. "Seven."

At eleven o'clock that night, after a pleasant dinner with Lord Abingdon and two friends who, like his lordship, were interested in philanthropic works, Barnaby and Penelope descended the steps of his lordship's town house to discover the fog had blown away, leaving the night crisp and clear.

"If I stare hard enough I can even see the stars." Penelope tucked her hand in the crook of Barnaby's elbow. "Let's not bother with a hackney—it'll be nice to walk."

Barnaby glanced down at her as they started along the pavement. "We'll have to cross half of Mayfair to reach Mount Street. You're not, by any chance, hoping to run into Smythe along the way?"

Her brows rose. "Strange to say, that idea hadn't crossed my mind." She met his gaze; her lips were curved. "I wasn't thinking of walking to Mount Street. Jermyn Street's much closer."

It was. He blinked. "Your mother…"

"Is in Essex."

They reached Arlington Street; turning the corner, they continued strolling. "I feel I ought to point out that in the interests of propriety you shouldn't be seen strolling down Jermyn Street on a gentleman's arm at night."

"Nonsense. In this cloak, with my hood up, no one will recognize me."

He wasn't sure why he was arguing; he was entirely content to have her come home with him—exactly as if they were already married, or at least an affianced couple—but…"Mostyn will be shocked."

She snorted. "I could demand to see your menus for the week and all Mostyn would do is bow, murmur ‘Yes, ma'am,' and hurry to fetch them."

He blinked. It took a moment to digest all those few words conveyed. In the end, he said, "He addresses you as ‘ma'am'?"

She shrugged. "Many do."

Many wasn't Mostyn, his terribly correct gentleman's gentleman. "I see." They'd reached the corner of Bent Street. Without further argument, Barnaby turned them along it.

He glanced at her face; beneath her lighthearted, almost playful expression he could detect a certain determination. Given the unresolved state of their relationship, he suspected he'd be wise to graciously give way. And see where she was taking them.

It might very well be where he wanted to go.

Penelope was indeed plotting and planning—rehearsing suitable phrases with which to introduce the subject of marriage once they'd reached his house. In the parlor would be preferable; easier to talk there—less distraction, there being no bed.

She'd assumed any discussion of their relationship, of how it had evolved from the initial purely professional connection to something so much more, to the point that they now, as they had over the last two nights, appeared to all others as a couple, connected in that indefinable way that marked two people who were, or should be, married, would be better put off until after they'd rescued Dick and Jemmie.

But with Smythe proving so elusive…what was the point in waiting? In putting off the inevitable?

Especially when, as they'd proved time and again over the last week, the inevitable held significant benefits for them both.

She couldn't believe that the reality of their relationship wasn't as clear to him as it was to her. She could believe, quite easily given her accumulated experience of gentlemen of his ilk, that he would vacillate over speaking—that even he would shy from declaring his heart.

She had no such reservations—was prey to no such hesitation. She felt perfectly able, and willing, to broach that particular subject.

But first they had to reach his parlor. She chatted blithely about this and that—curious about the gentlemen's clubs she barely glimpsed as he whisked her across St. James—then they were strolling down Jermyn Street.

She felt her nerves tighten as his door came into view. He guided her up the steps, then released her to reach into his pocket for his key.

Hearing footsteps approaching on the other side of the door, she swung to face it.

Barnaby looked up as the door opened and Mostyn stood there, filling the doorway.

Before he could blink, Penelope swept in. Mostyn gave way, bowing respectfully.

"Tea, please, Mostyn. In the parlor."

Tone and attitude were perfectly gauged; she was behaving exactly as if she were his wife. Leaving him gawping on the doorstep.

She glanced briefly back at him, then turned toward the parlor. "Your master and I have matters to discuss."

What matters? Brows rising along with welling hope, Barnaby took a step forward.

"Hist!"

Hist? Still on his front step, Barnaby turned and saw a man wait ing by the area railings. The man beckoned, furtively glancing around.

Puzzled, Barnaby walked to the edge of the wide top step. "What is it?"

"You're Mr. Adair?"

"Yes."

"I was sent with a message, sir. Urgent like." The man beckoned again.

Frowning, Barnaby stepped down. One step gave him a better perspective on the street. Abruptly he halted, staring through the darkness, premonition prickling across his nape. Seeing three—he glanced the other way—no, four—men hanging back in the shadows to either side of his house, he started to step back.

They saw—and flung themselves at him.

He caught the first with a kick to the chest, throwing him against the side railings, but before he could recover the others swarmed up the steps and over him. He downed another with a blow to the gut, but the others pressed up and in, hemming him in so he couldn't move enough to get any force behind his blows.

They were trying to grab him, to wrestle him down the steps. To subdue and take him, but not to harm him. No knives, thank God.

He was wrestling with one, simultaneously trying to block the others from getting behind him to push, when he sensed someone else at his back. The heavy head of his grandfather's cane appeared over his shoulder, striking at the head of the man he was wrestling with.

Mostyn had flung himself into the breach.

His attacker yelled as the blows connected; two others tried to intervene, but the cane slashed first one way, then the other, and they fell back.

The cane returned to hit the man still holding Barnaby; he put up a hand to protect his head—loosening his grip.

In the same instant, smaller hands clutched the back of Barnaby's coat, steadying him—then hauling back with surprising strength.

A strength he used to help him wrench free of the man's desperate hold.

With a hoarse bellow the man ignored the thumping cane, flung himself forward, lower to the step, and seized Barnaby's flapping coat again. He got a good handful and tried to tumble Barnaby down the steps, but with Penelope's added weight to anchor him, Barnaby set his feet and wrenched his coat free, then whirled and pushed Penelope back over the threshold, gathered Mostyn—still slashing mightily with the cane—and bundled him back, too.

Flinging himself after them, he just had time before the wrestler picked himself up and his friends joined him, hurling themselves up the steps, to slam the door in their faces.

They hit the door with significant force.

Leaning against it, Barnaby reached up and threw the bolts. Mostyn quickly took care of the lower set.

The door shook under a fresh assault.

Mostyn rushed to add his weight to Barnaby's. The pounding continued. Mostyn put their combined incredulity into words. "This is Jermyn Street, for heaven's sake! Don't they know?"

"It appears they don't care." Grim-faced, Barnaby fished in his waistcoat pocket. He pulled out a police whistle on a ribbon. Still struggling to bolster the shaking door, he held it out to Penelope. "The parlor window."

Wide-eyed, she grabbed the whistle and rushed into the parlor.

In the warmly lit parlor, Penelope flung back the curtains, unlatched the casement window, swung it wide, dragged in a huge breath, leaned out as far as she dared over the area steps, put her lips to the whistle, and blew with all her might.

The shrill sound was enough to shatter eardrums.

She looked to see what effect it had had on the men pounding on the door—with a squeak, she ducked back just in time to avoid the brick that came sailing through the window.

Outrage welled. Furious, she dragged in a breath.

"Penelope?"

Eyes narrowed, she cast a dark glance at the window, then whirled and raced out into the hall. "I'm all right." The pounding on the door resumed. Barnaby and Mostyn pressed hard against the shuddering panels. "I'm going upstairs."

Grabbing her skirts, she held them up and took the stairs at a run. Racing into Barnaby's bedroom, she rushed to the window overlooking the street, flung wide the curtains, wrestled with the sash. Eventually pushing it up, she hiked herself up onto the wide sill, leaned out, glanced down at the men below, then put the whistle to her lips again.

She blew and blew.

The men looked up, swore, and shook their fists at her, but she was beyond their reach.

She grew giddy and stopped blowing, but by then she could see movement down the street. The sound of running footsteps—many heavy pounding footsteps—rolled up out of the night as constables of the watch converged from all directions.

With grim satisfaction, she watched as Barnaby's attackers turned to face the police.

What followed puzzled her.

The attackers didn't flee, as she felt attackers should. Instead, they flung themselves at the watch. In seconds, a melee had erupted, filling the street. More constables ran up—and, she noticed, a few more from the other side slid from the shadows to join the fight.

"How odd." It was as if the attackers' real target hadn't been Barnaby at all, but the police…

Stepping away from the window, she stared unseeing across the room. "Oh, my God!"

Grabbing up her skirts, she raced for the door. She flung herself recklessly down the stairs.

The much-abused front door stood open. She ran out—and uttered a prayer of relief when she found Barnaby on the front step rather than in the heaving jumble of bodies that continued to swell, jamming the street.

As she had done, he was frowning at the melee as if he couldn't work it out.

She grabbed his arm and hauled him around to face her. "It's a diversion!" She had to all but scream to be heard over the grunts and shouts.

He blinked at her. "What?"

"A diversion !" She swung out an arm, encompassing the crowd. "Look at all the police here—all the watch constables from around about. They're here—so they can't be on the beats they're supposed to be patrolling."

Understanding lit his blue eyes. "They're doing more burglaries tonight."

"Yes!" She literally jigged with impatience. "We have to go and look!"

"I know it's drawing a long bow, I know it's potentially dangerous, but we can't just sit at home and wait and wonder." Penelope marched along at Barnaby's side, scanning the houses they passed.

Although she'd kept her voice low, her words rang with a determination Barnaby couldn't—didn't have it in him—to dispute; he was no more inclined to passive patience than she.

It had been impossible to break up the melee. He'd waded in and collared a young constable; dragging the lad free, he'd sent him hotfoot to Scotland Yard with a message for Stokes. He had no idea whether Sergeant Miller would be on duty, or anyone else he could count on to act. And he had even less idea where Stokes might be; he had a sneaking suspicion his friend might be in St. John's Wood, in which case he was too far away to be of any material help.

So here they were, just the two of them, wandering Mayfair's streets.

December was around the corner, as evidenced by the crisp chill in the air; like the mansions they passed, the streets were largely deserted. An occasional hackney or town carriage clopped past. It was after midnight; the few couples still in town would have returned from their evening's engagements and be tucked up in bed, while the tonnish bachelors wouldn't yet have left their clubs.

These were the hours during which burglars struck.

They'd walked up Berkeley Street, and around the square, then down Bolton Street. They were presently walking up Clarges Street. Reaching the corner where it intersected with the mews, they turned left toward Queen Street. Ahead of them, a black carriage slowly rolled across the end of the mews, going up Queen Street.

Penelope frowned. "I could have sworn I saw that carriage before."

Barnaby grunted.

Penelope didn't say more. The carriage was a small black town carriage, the sort every major household had sitting in their stables, their second carriage. Why it had stuck in her head—why she was so convinced she'd seen that particular carriage earlier…she remembered where. They'd been crossing the northwest corner of Berkeley Square when the carriage had cut across Mount Street a block ahead of them, trundling in that same slow manner up Carlos Place.

She'd turned her head and looked at it; the angle of her view of the horse, carriage, and coachman on the box had been exactly the same as it had been a few minutes ago.

But why such a sight—to her, in this area, such a common sight—should so nag at her, why the certainty that it was the same carriage should be so insistently fixed in her brain, she had no clue. She puzzled over it as they walked quietly along, carefully scanning shadows, glancing down area steps, but came to no conclusion.

Reaching Queen Street, they hesitated, then Barnaby tugged her to the left. Settling her hand more comfortably in his arm, she strolled beside him. In another season, anyone seeing them would have thought them an affianced couple taking a long stroll the better to spend time in each other's company. With winter in the air, such a reason was unlikely, but their slow, ambling progress gave them plenty of time to examine the houses they passed.

Just like the couple she saw walking along the other side of Curzon Street.

Reaching the corner where Queen met Curzon, she stared, then tugged on Barnaby's arm. When he glanced her way, she pointed across and down Curzon Street.

He looked, then snorted.

In unspoken accord, they crossed to the southern side of the street and waited until the other couple strolled up.

Stokes looked shamefaced. He shrugged. "We couldn't think of anything else to do."

"Hostages or not, we couldn't sit at home and do nothing at all," Griselda stated.

"Anyway," Stokes said, "I take it from your presence here you felt the same."

"Actually"—Barnaby glanced at Penelope—"our presence here is more a response to direct action."

Stokes was instantly alert. "What happened?"

Barnaby described the "diversion."

"We sent a message," Penelope said, "but if you've been out walking, they wouldn't know where to find you."

Stokes nodded. "But we're here now—and you're right. They must be doing more houses tonight." He glanced around. "And most likely in this area."

"Given the diversion was in Jermyn Streeet," Barnaby said, "which beats in Mayfair are most likely to be currently deserted?"

Stokes saw his point. He waved to the south. "If we take Piccadilly as the southern boundary, then all the way to the Circus, then up Regent Street"—he pointed to the east—"up as far as Conduit Street. From there, across Bond Street to Bruton Street, along the top of Berkeley Square…and as your rooms are at this end of Jermyn Street, then they've probably come running from as far north as Hill Street, and probably"—he turned to look back along Curzon Street—"from all the areas out to Park Lane."

"So we're standing more or less in the middle of the deserted patch?" Penelope asked.

Jaw firming, Stokes nodded. "Depending on where in the beat they were, but I haven't seen any constables since we headed this way."

"We haven't seen any, either," Barnaby said, looking around, "but then we started from where they've all gone."

Stokes swore beneath his breath. "Let's divide the area and split up."

He and Barnaby put their heads together and sorted out routes. Stokes nodded. "We'll meet up again on the south side of Berkeley Square, unless either of us sights the beggars. You've got your whistle?"

Penelope patted her pocket. "I have it."

Barnaby retook her hand. He nodded a farewell to Griselda, then met Stokes's eyes. "If either of us see a bobby, or even a hackney, we should send word to the Yard and get them to send more men this way."

Stokes saluted and reached for Griselda's arm.

Barnaby and Penelope turned to head east along Curzon Street. Before they'd taken even one step a shrill shriek cut through the night and froze them.

Stokes was immediately beside them, searching the night. "Where?"

None of them was sure.

Then a second shriek split the silence. Penelope pointed ahead, to the left. "There! Half Moon Street."

Picking up her skirts, she ran. In a few strides, Barnaby and Stokes had outstripped her; Griselda appeared at her shoulder.

The shrieking had grown to a continuous wail, escalating in volume the closer they got to the intersection.

Barnaby and Stokes were a few paces from Half Moon Street when the shrieking reached new heights and two small figures came pelting around the corner.

Running at full speed, they streaked past both men before either could react.

Farther back, Penelope skidded to a halt. Now that their shrieks weren't distorted by the houses, she could hear they were calling for help.

"Dick?" One pale face looked up. She recognized the other. "Jemmie!"

Barely able to believe her eyes, she waved them to where she'd stopped with Griselda beside her.

Jemmie swerved to come to her, but Dick hung back in the middle of the road, eyes wild and staring, glancing back at the way they'd come, ready to dart off again. Jemmie noticed. "It's the miss from the Foundling House."

Dick looked at her again; the relief that flooded his face was almost painful to see. He shot over to join Jemmie.

Both boys grabbed her hands, one each, squeezing, jigging in their nervousness. "Please, miss— please save us!"

"Of course." Penelope bent and hugged them both. Crouching down, she drew Jemmie closer as Griselda also crouched, enfolding Dick in a protective embrace.

Barnaby and Stokes came walking back to them. Both were large men; with their features shadowed and unrecognizable, they were an intimidating sight. Penelope wasn't surprised when both boys shrank back against her and Griselda. "It's all right." She smiled at them reassuringly. "We're here. But what are we saving you from?"

The words had barely left her lips when a roar erupted, once again shattering the night. They all looked up. Barnaby and Stokes swung about, instinctively ranging themselves between the women and the boys and the oncoming danger.

A huge figure shot out of Half Moon Street, swearing and cursing, charging straight for them.

"Him!" the boys shrieked.

The ogre looked up and saw them—saw Stokes and Barnaby directly ahead of him. He swore, skidded to a halt, scrambled around, and fled in the opposite direction.

Barnaby and Stokes were already after him.

That sliding halt had cost the man too much ground; Barnaby was on him before he'd gone a block, Stokes just behind. In less than a minute they had the villain flat on his face on the cobbles. Barnaby sat on him while Stokes tied his arms and hands, then hobbled his ankles with the reins they'd found attached to his belt.

"I do like a criminal who comes prepared." Stokes hauled the man to his feet. He looked into his face, then smiled. "Mr. Smythe, I presume."

Smythe snarled.