I breathed once, hard. “I ain’t sorry to see the last of that old duck,” I said, turning away.

The Doctor and the others chuckled. “What a mouth,” Mr. Moore said, lying on the divan. “Like a machine.”

“Yes. It’s a pity.” The Doctor walked back over to the señora. “If fate and our society had not forced her to narrow her thoughts with a political agenda, she could have had a truly first-class scientific mind.” He knelt down next to the Linares woman. “Señora? I don’t need to ask if this is the woman-your face gives me the answer. But is there anything I can get you?”

Her lips trembled as she answered, “My daughter, Doctor. You can get me my daughter.” Her eyes finally broke away from the sketch, and she began to gather up her bag and hat. “I must go-it’s late. I shall not be able to return.” Standing up, she gave the Doctor a final pleading look. “Can it be done, Doctor? Can you do it?”

“I think,” he said, taking her arm, “that we now have a good chance. Cyrus?”

Cyrus stood up, ready to escort the señora to a hansom for the last time. She murmured thanks as best she could to the rest of us, then got into the elevator with him when Miss Howard brought it back. Seeing the señora’s condition, Miss Howard put her arms around her, at which the señora finally started to cry. Together, the threesome floated back down to Broadway.

The detective sergeants ambled over for another look at the sketch. “That Beaux woman has got a real future in wanted posters,” Marcus mused. “If the art business doesn’t work out…”

“It’s remarkable,” Lucius said. “I’ve seen photographs in the Rogues’ Gallery at headquarters that aren’t as good.”

“Yes,” the Doctor agreed. “And speaking of photographs, gentlemen, we shall need a dozen or so of the sketch. As soon as you can make them.”

“They’ll be ready by morning,” Marcus said, rolling the sketch up to take with him. “And so will we.”

“I won’t!” Mr. Moore protested from the divan.

“Oh, come now, Moore,” the Doctor cajoled. “This is the true labor of investigation. You are the foot soldier, the unsung hero-”

“Really?” Mr. Moore answered. “Well, I’d like to be the sung hero for a change, Kreizler-why can’t you do the door-to-door work-”

He was cut off as the front door slammed wide open. Cyrus hustled in, a supporting arm around Miss Howard. She was moving under her own power but seemed very woozy. We all dashed over, and the Doctor looked at her closely.

“Cyrus!” he said. “What happened?”

“I’m-all right,” Miss Howard whispered, trying to catch her breath. “Just a fright-that’s all…”

“A fright?” said Mr. Moore. “That had to be one hell of a fright, Sara, to put you in this shape-what was it?”

“We’d just put the señora in a cab,” Cyrus explained, reaching into his jacket pocket, “and were coming back into the lobby. This lodged in the door frame near Miss Howard’s head as we were passing through.”

Holding out his big hand, Cyrus displayed one of the most peculiar knives I’ve ever seen: leather-gripped and hiked with rough iron, it had a shining blade that curved in a series of S-shapes, like a slithering snake.

Lucius took hold of the thing, holding it up to the light. “Do you think it was intended to hit one of you?” he asked.

“Can’t tell, Detective Sergeant. Not for sure, anyway. But-”

“But?” Marcus said.

“Well, from the way it hit just the right spot in the frame-I’d say no. Whoever threw it meant to come close. Nothing more.”

“Or less,” the Doctor said, taking the knife. “Well… the señora said she felt she’d been followed here.”

“You didn’t see anyone?” Mr. Moore asked Cyrus.

“No, sir. A young boy, running around a corner-but he couldn’t have been the one. This was an expert, if you ask me.”

The Doctor handed the knife back to Lucius. “An expert-sending a warning.” He pointed at the knife. “A peculiar blade, Detective Sergeant. Do you recognize it?”

Lucius frowned. “I do, though I wish I didn’t. It’s called a kris. The weapon of the Manilamen-they believe it has mystical powers.”

“Ah,” the Doctor noised. “Then the señora was right. Her husband knows where she’s been. We can only hope that he doesn’t know why, and that she can invent a story that he will believe.”

“Wait,” I said. “How can you be so sure she’s right? What is that thing, anyway? Who are the Manilamen?”

“They’re pirates and mercenaries,” Marcus answered. “Some of the toughest characters in the western Pacific. They take their name from the capital of the Philippine Islands.”

“Yeah? So what?”

The Doctor took the knife again. “The Philippine Islands, Stevie, are one of the most important colonies in the Spanish Empire. A most valued jewel in the queen regent’s crown. Well…” He walked toward the center of the room, still examining the knife. “It would seem that we have gained an advantage tonight-and lost one.” He gave us all a very serious look. “We must move.”

CHAPTER 13

The strange knife from the Philippines may not have done Miss Howard or Cyrus any harm, but it dealt a death blow to Mr. Moore’s reluctance to get started on finding the woman in our sketch. He’d known Miss Howard since childhood (her family’d had a house on Gramercy Park in addition to their estate in the Hudson Valley), and though she was always quick to maintain that she didn’t need any man’s help to protect herself-which was as true as true could be-Mr. Moore didn’t like the idea of crazed Filipinos following her or any of us around with kris at the ready. And so, bright and early Friday morning, he marched into Number 808, carrying a long list of every agency in town that offered care for infants and children. He’d told his bosses at The New York Times that he wasn’t going to be around for a while, and that if they didn’t like it they could go ahead and fire him. They hadn’t been much surprised by this statement, as Mr. Moore was known to be a loose cannon around his office; but since the scoops he periodically came up with continued to make it worth putting up with his uppity behavior, they didn’t let him go but gave him an indefinite vacation. (There were only a couple of occasions during his years at the Times when he crossed the line far enough to get the sack, and even then the exile was only temporary.)

The detective sergeants, Miss Howard, and Mr. Moore proceeded to divide the list up, and then each set out with photographic copies of Miss Beaux’s sketch, ready for long days of frustrating inquiries at places that were often run by very uncooperative people. All of us at Seventeenth Street knew that this process would take some time, time that would pass faster if we filled it with constructive activity. For the Doctor, that meant locking himself back up in his study and combing through more psychological texts, trying to determine a hypothetical background for the woman we were tracking. The occasional cries, curses, and execrations that came out of that room, though, indicated that he was failing to get much further than he had earlier in the week. As for Cyrus, the detective sergeants had secretly asked him to prepare a report on each member of the Doctor’s staff at the Institute, since they’d have to juggle that investigation with the Linares affair. No one knew the Doctor’s assistants-the teachers, matrons, even the custodians-better than Cyrus, and he took advantage of the time to put together a set of summaries what were very detailed.

As for me, I’d been struck, during the business with the Filipino knife, by my own ignorance of where and what those islands were and of their importance to the Spanish Empire. So I asked the Doctor for some books and monographs that might help me understand just what the situation regarding Spain and the United States was all about. Pleased by my genuine interest, the Doctor obliged, and I took the materials up to my room and sank into them.