Tom Brig half rose to his knees, then subsided into the kennel with a whimpered exhalation, letting his head fall onto a heap of rotting cabbages, his eyes closing, a stale, beery froth bubbling at his open mouth.

Theo grimaced, stepped over him, and pushed boldly at the closed door. It swung open, and she found herself on the threshold of a square room, foul sawdust on the floor, sea coal belching noxious fumes from the hearth, mingling with the acrid, greasy stench of the tallow rushes and the fish-oil lamps swinging from the blackened rafters.

Her eyes were streaming from the smoke, and for a minute she could see nothing. Then a voice exclaimed, "Well, lookee 'ere, then, Long Meg. Get an eyeful of what the river's dropped on us."

A sea of eyes swiveled toward her. Bloodshot eyes with yellow whites. Grinning mouths revealed blackened stumps, and the reek of unwashed bodies and stale breath enclosed her like a miasma. Then she saw Sylvester, up by the bar counter, a mug in his hand.

He stared at her for a minute, wondering if he'd had enough gin and water to create this image. The crimson velvet hood of her cloak was thrown back, revealing the blue-black hair in startling contrast. Her eyes were dark and intense in the glowing brown face, her lips parted as if on the verge of an eager message.

As he struggled to make sense of this extraordinary visitation, Theo pushed her way through the room toward him, ignoring the hands that grabbed at her cloak, the coarse voices that offered a variety of lewd suggestions for her entertainment.

"Sylvester, there's something I have to tell you." She reached him, smiling, putting her hand on his arm. "I don't believe anymore you've hurt me at all, and I think I've just been -"

Sylvester found his voice. "I must be going insane. What in the devil's name are you doing here?"

"I followed you," she said. "What's that you're drinking?" She picked up the tankard and sniffed its contents. "Is it blue ruin? It smells horrible, but I suppose it's what people drink in places like this."

She turned to look around her with a curious eye, feeling secure now that Sylvester was beside her. "Why would you come to a place like this, Stoneridge?"

Sylvester debated whether to wring her neck on the spot or wait until he could enjoy the exercise at his leisure. "How dare you follow me?" he said finally, aware of how inadequately the words expressed his feelings.

"I wanted to tell you I've realized that actually I don't mind anymore that you tricked me into marrying you," she explained earnestly, her eyes huge and dark in the smoky dimness, her hand still on his arm.

"Well, I'm delighted to hear it," he responded with feeble sarcasm. "Such vital information couldn't have waited, of course, for a more suitable place and time."

"No, it couldn't," Theo declared. She took a sip from his tankard. "Ugh! It's disgusting."

He snatched the tankard from her and smacked her hand away sharply. It relieved his feelings a little, but not nearly enough.

"I can't deal with you here, but by God, I'm going to enjoy getting you home," he said grimly, flinging a shilling on the stained planking of the counter. "You've managed to ruin my own plans, endanger yourself -"

"Not so," Theo denied as he caught her wrist and pulled her behind him toward the door. "I can handle trouble, as you know perfectly well."

"Well, I'll tell you this much, my girl. The trouble I'm about to administer, you won't be able to handle," he asserted, pushing her through the door.

"What plans have I ruined?" Theo demanded, tripping over an uneven cobble and grabbing at his arm. "Oh, you have to pay my hackney. I didn't bring any money."

Sylvester cast his eyes and a prayer for patience heavenward and dug into his pocket for his purse.

"Did you see that man in the corner of the taproom?" Theo persisted. "He didn't look as if he belonged in a place like that either… I mean either like you or me. What were you doing there, Stoneridge?"

Sylvester stopped at Theo's hackney with an arrested expression. "What man?"

"I'll show you if you come back inside," she said. "He was all muffled up, but his muffler was of good wool, and he wore top boots. And his cloak had a silk lining."

Sylvester stared at her in the darkness. "How did you see all that?"

"I'm very observant," she said. "So's Rosie. Even with her poor eyesight, not much passes her by."

"You goin' to pay me, guv, or jest stand there gabbin' all night?" The jarvey leaned down from his box. "Two shillin'."

"From Curzon Street! That's daylight robbery."

"But he did have to follow you," Theo pointed out. "He had to drive so that he could keep you in sight all the time."

"A formidable task. Clearly, I stand in his debt," Sylvester muttered with heavy irony. He handed over the two shillings.

"Shall we go back inside and I'll show you the man?"

"No." He bundled her over to the other hackney. "Jarvey, just pull to the far corner and stay there. I'll tell you when to move on." He followed Theo into the vehicle and sat forward, holding the leather curtain aside, his eyes fixed on the door to the Fisherman's Rest as the hackney pulled into the deep shadows thrown by a steeply pitched overhanging roof at the corner of the lane.

"Who is the man?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be here."

"Aren't you going to tell me anything else?"

"No. And if it's all the punishment you receive for this insane interference, you can count yourself lucky."

Theo contemplated his profile and decided she didn't have too much to worry about. There was a telltale curve to the chiseled mouth and a note in his voice that belied his words.

She sat back since there wasn't room for both of them to look out the window and contemplated the puzzle that had brought them to this insalubrious spot.

Suddenly it came to her. "Those men this afternoon! Someone set them on you, and they told you he would be here."

Theo was too sharp for her own good. He said nothing immediately, however, but kept his eye on the door.

His patience was rewarded. A tall man slipped outside, pausing in the lane to adjust the woolen muffler around his mouth. A flash of white silk showed as his cloak swung when he turned sideways, looking up and down the narrow alley.

Sylvester could see nothing of his face, but he knew who it was. There was something about the way the man held himself, about the set of his shoulders. Sylvester had been at school with Neil Gerard. He'd known him since they were terrified ten-year-olds hiding from their bullying elders.

"Sweet Jesus," he murmured, pulling his head back into the carriage. Neil would have seen him in the tavern. But he didn't know that Sylvester had recognized him. Gerard would have seen only the diversion Theo had provided. Presumably, he'd been waiting for his hired assailants to make their report. When they hadn't appeared, and their intended victim had come in their stead, he would have guessed what had happened.

But he wouldn't know for sure that Gilbraith had seen him. Theo had done double service with her outrageous impulse. Provided distraction as well as the means for identification.

"Who was it?" Theo demanded in a low voice as he banged on the ceiling to give the jarvey the order to move off.

"I don't know," he lied. Theo's entanglement in this puzzle ended here and now. She was far too impulsive and unpredictable. She reminded him of an unstable Catherine wheel, liable at any moment to spin off its pin onto some darting, whirling course of its own. After this evening's exploit there was no knowing what she'd do if he opened the door even a fraction.

"But you must have some idea who would want to injure you," she persisted.

"Come here." He dragged her across the space that divided them and settled her on his knee. "Now, tell me again what it was that brought you hotfoot on my heels."