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“Who?” Jimmy demanded.

Stagger’s face tightened back into its sly, unconvincing innocence. “The accomplice of the cove what tied me up. Come out of nowhere, seemed like, and went off with him. Dressed like a boy but looked like a mort. Just before you come and rescued me, Mr. Knott. You want to find them two.”

That was true enough and Jimmy knew just where to look. “What did they steal, then?”

“What?”

“When they tied you up, they must have had a reason. Made off with your diamond tiara, did they?”

“Making fun of a poor man’s beneath you, Mr. Knott.”

“Well, you are a poor man,” Jimmy allowed. “And not likely to get any richer. Now, if we managed to lay hands on your gaffer, the cove that planned the whole thing and made off with the ransom money, then it would go better for you. He’d hang. If I spoke for you, you’d get no worse than a few years, seven years transportation at the very worst.”

“Actually,” Jimmy added, pressing his point home as he saw a spark of speculation light Stagger’s eyes, “Lord Petteril ain’t a vindictive gentleman. If you was kind to him, while he was your prisoner, he might well speak for you, too.”

For an instant, Jimmy thought he had won. Then Stagger smiled and sat back on his cell floor. “I don’t know who you mean. Bring him here. Let him point the finger, swear on his Bible I did anything to him at all.”

Over a few cases, and several caught villains, Jimmy had come to trust as well as like the enigmatic Lord Petteril. But Stagger’s confidence worried him. It even crossed his mind that this was some elaborate hoax, though where Petteril and his valet fitted into it all...

“Stuff it,” Jimmy said, opening the cell door, then slamming it shut behind him. “You stew for the night. You’ll be up before the beak tomorrow, so you’ll need a better story than that.”

He stalked away from the cells, only too aware that he hadn’t worried Stagger in the slightest. He felt old because he looked forward to his bed with ferocious longing.

When he bumped into Stewart the valet at the front door of the magistrate’s house, he knew that was not to be.

“You again,” he growled. “Where’s his lordship?”

“Home,” said the valet. “But not for long. He wants you to meet him at this address in Piccadilly.”

Jimmy groaned.

***

SIR HUGO CAULDWELL was celebrating in his own inimitable style. It rather thrilled him that none of his hosts or fellow guests were aware of it. He could see in everyone’s eyes as well as in their smiles and laughter, that he was on top form with wit and eloquence. It struck him that he was making more friends that night than on any previous evening in his life.

Confidence, he knew, bred more confidence, and people liked that. Cauldwell did too. It was all to do with success, which also bred further success.

Thank you, Petteril. With his lordship’s money, he could begin the land improvements necessary to turn around his ailing estate—the improvements Petteril himself had also explained to him so persuasively.

The true beauty was, when he needed more money, he knew where to go for it. No one would ever know. And so he entertained the theatregoers gathered in Lady Morgan’s box during the interval, popped into Mrs. Jersey’s card party for a hand or two of commerce—which he won, naturally—and even looked into White’s on his way home. At each place, he had sown the impression that he had been there long before anyone noticed him. So, if anything went wrong, if Stagger began to blab in his cups, for example, then Cauldwell had a very decent alibi.

He’d made sure he had them for previous visits to Seven Dials, too. Including last night when he’d seen Haggard at White’s. No doubt Haggard would agree that he had been there an hour or so before they actually met. The man had been looking for Petteril, in a somewhat half-hearted fashion. He had been easily distracted.

But Cauldwell did not stay long at the club tonight. He was eager to get home, for he had taken the time to do no more than shave and change his clothes before heading for the theatre. Petteril’s hat, boots, pantaloons, and even that distinctive, foppish quizzing glass, were still in the ransom bag with the money. He should have abandoned them somewhere in Seven Dials, of course, but he had not cared to risk opening the bag anywhere in that vicinity. Not with three thousand pounds in it.

Mind you, no one had come near them in Seven Dials. Stagger had spread the word quite effectively that that end of Saracen Street was now under the protection of a Big Player who brooked no interference. The criminal classes were as gullible as higher society, and not half as frightening as legend made out.

It was not far from White’s to his rooms on Piccadilly. He entered with his key, humming to himself. He had let his manservant go, in order to save money after his uncle had died. In fact, his uncle had used to pay the man’s wages for him, but once the old fool was dead Cauldwell had needed all the money he could ger from the dwindling estate that was now his. He kept on only the woman who came in to clean each day since she didn’t cost nearly as much as a valet. Although it had once felt like a sacrifice, he realized today that he rather enjoyed being alone with his private celebration.

He entered his sitting room, lit the lamp, and poured himself a very generous brandy. After all, he could now buy another bottle tomorrow before he left for his country seat and set in motion the first stage of his financial recovery.

He even raised his glass in a generous toast. “To you, Lord Petteril.”

“Thank you,” said a polite voice behind him.

Cauldwell, who had just taken a mouthful of brandy, swallowed too quickly and choked.

“There, there,” murmured the man who sounded just like Petteril.