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plaque identifying the offices of Thurlow and Brown along the south face of Lincoln’s Inn. Surrounding a rectangular cobbled courtyard, the Inn housed nothing but legal chambers. Its inner walls were punctuated with regularly spaced open archways, each giving access to a shadowy stairwell. On the wall beside each archway, bronze plaques bore witness to the legal firms housed off the stairway within.
    After consulting a book listing the solicitors of the Inns of Court, Montague had directed Gabriel to Lincoln’s Inn, describing the firm as small, old, but undistinguished, with no known association with any matter remotely illegal. As he climbed the stairs, Gabriel reflected that, if he’d been behind the sort of swindle it seemed likely the Central East Africa Gold Company was, then the first step he’d take to lull gullible investors would be to retain such a firm as Thurlow and Brown. A firm stultifyingly correct and all but moribund, unlikely to boast the talents or connections that might give rise to unanswerable questions.
    Thurlow and Brown’s rooms were on the second level, to the rear of the building. Gabriel reached for the knob of the heavy oak door, noting the large lock beneath the knob. Sauntering in, he scanned the small reception area. Behind a low railing, an old clerk worked at a raised desk, guarding access to a short corridor leading to one room at the rear, and to a second room off the reception area.
    â€œYes? Can I help you?” The clerk clutched at the angled desktop. Frowning, he flipped through a diary. “You don’t have an appointment.” He made it sound like an offense.
    His expression one of affable boredom, Gabriel shut the door, noting that there were no bolts or extra latches, only that large and cumbersome lock.
    â€œThurlow,” he murmured, turning back to the clerk. “There was a Thurlow at Eton when I was there. I wonder if it’s the same one?”
    â€œCouldn’t be. His nibs”—the clerk waved an ink-stained hand at the half open door giving off the reception area—“is old enough to be your dad.”
    â€œThat so?” Gabriel sounded disappointed. Clearly “his nibs” was out. “Ah, well. It was really Mr. Browne I came to see.”
    Again the clerk frowned; again he checked his book. “You’re not down for this afternoon . . .”
    â€œI’m not? How odd. I was sure the pater said two.”
    The clerk shook his head. “Mr. Brown’s out. I’m not expecting him back until later.”
    Letting annoyance flash across his features, Gabriel thumped the reception railing with his cane. “If that isn’t just like Theo Browne! Never could keep his engagements straight!”
    â€œ Theo Brown?”
    Gabriel looked at the clerk. “Yes—Mr. Browne.”
    â€œBut that’s not our Mr. Brown.”
    â€œIt isn’t?” Gabriel stared at the clerk. “Is your Browne spelled with an ‘e’?”
    The clerk shook his head.
    â€œDamn!” Gabriel swung away. “I was sure it was Thurlow and Browne.” He frowned. “Maybe it’s Thirston and Browne. Thrapston and Browne. Something like that.” He looked questioningly at the clerk.
    Who shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, sir. Don’t know of any firms with names like that. Mind you, there is Browne, Browne and Tillson in the other quad—might they be the ones you’re after?”
    â€œBrowne, Browne and Tillson.” Gabriel repeated the name twice with different inflections, then shrugged. “Who knows. Could be.” He swung to the door. “The other quad, you say?”
    â€œAye, sir—across the carriage road through the Inn.”
    Waving his cane in farewell, Gabriel went out, closing the door behind him. Then he grinned and strolled down the stairs.
    Regaining the sunshine, he strode across the cobbles. He’d