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—pleasesave 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.
23
Who is Alert?” Stokes paced slowly before the chair on which Smythe sat slumped. They’d brought him to Barnaby’s rooms; not only had Jermyn Street been a lot nearer than Scotland Yard, but as Barnaby had been quick to point out, with Alert, whoever he was, connected with the police force, it was far preferable to keep the cards that had at long last fallen into their hands very close to their chests.
Even if Alert knew that something had gone wrong, even if he knew they had Smythe, the less he knew of what they learned from Smythe, the better.
They’d tied Smythe to the chair. He couldn’t break free, and wasn’t trying to. He’d tested his bonds once; finding them secure, he hadn’t wasted effort trying to break them again.
He might be a massive hulk, a burglar and very likely a murderer, too, but he wasn’t stupid; Stokes had every confidence Smythe would eventually tell them all he knew. He’d want something in return, but he had nothing to gain by keeping Alert’s secrets.
They’d set Smythe’s chair in the center of the room, facing the hearth; Stokes paced in the clear space before it. Penelope and Griselda were seated in the armchairs to either side of the now brightly burning fire. Barnaby stood beside Penelope’s chair, one arm braced on the mantelshelf.
Dick and Jemmie were seated at a small table along one wall, wolfing down huge sandwiches Mostyn had produced. Mostyn hovered beside them, as interested as they in the scene being enacted in the room’s center.
