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adults spoke about the sapphires that were on display at Grayson Lake Jewelers—“And why on earth they bothered to print that in the paper, I’ll never understand,” said Emmy’s mother—and the spicy scent of the small flowers called “pinks” that Mr. Peebles had brought in a vase. Then, more interestingly, they talked about the Home for Troubled Girls, which Peter said he had investigated with the police after Jane Barmy had tried to send Emmy there. “It was only a shoe shop,” he said. “Old Mr. B—I’ve known him for years, he’s actually Jane’s father—made this dollhouse he likes to call ‘The Home for Troubled Girls,’ and he thought it would be cute to put up a sign outside. It’s nothing, really.”
    â€œI wonder if the police will catch up with Miss Barmy,” mused Kathy Addison.
    Emmy thought they probably wouldn’t, unless the police had a description of Miss Barmy that included fur and a long tail.
    â€œIt’s strange to think,” said Emmy’s father, “that Jane Barmy grew up in the caretaker’s cottage on this estate. Didn’t you know her, Peter?”
    â€œShe was a friend,” said Peter, a little grimly. “That’s why I trusted her. We used to go sailing together—Jane and Cheswick and Priscilla—” He stopped abruptly.
    Emmy fidgeted in her seat and twisted a strand of hair around her finger.
    Mrs. Benson changed the subject smoothly. “And do you still sail, Peter? Emmy wants to learn someday, don’t you, dear?”
    Emmy nodded.
    Mr. Peebles smiled at her, the strained look leaving his face. “There’s a youth race tomorrow, and I’ll be on the signal boat. I invited my cousin’s oldest boy to come along, but he’s busy with a soccer tournament.”
    Emmy sat up alertly.
    â€œWould you be interested, Emmy? I could explain the race, and maybe you’ll see some kids you know.”
    â€œWhat a good idea!” said Emmy’s father.
    â€œMake sure you wear a life jacket,” said Emmy’s mother.
    There was a scurrying sort of noise, and something furry brushed against Emmy’s ankle beneath the table. She suppressed a shriek and lifted a corner of the tablecloth.
    â€œI’m coming, too,” said Raston Rat, grinning up at her. “I’ve always wanted to be a pirate.”
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    Emmy swirled her fork in the raspberry sauce on her plate. It was hard to have much of an appetite when the warm, furry body of a rat was draped across her foot and a slender tail kept tickling her ankles.
    â€œPsst!”
    Emmy sighed inwardly, dropped her napkin, and ducked beneath the tablecloth. “What is it now ?” she whispered, under cover of the clinking of silverware and the hum of grown-up conversation, which had gone back to boring.
    â€œDoes G.I. Joe have a pirate hat?” the Rat asked.
    â€œI doubt it,” Emmy said coldly. “Now, will you please stop bothering me? I can’t keep on dropping things—they’ll get suspicious.”
    â€œI’ll need a gold earring,” Raston mused. “ And a pirate flag.”
    Emmy sat rigidly upright. If she ignored him, maybe he would go away … A moment later, she nearly yelped aloud.
    â€œAre you all right, Emmy?” asked her father with concern.
    Emmy wanted to tell him the truth—that a rat had just run up her leg—but she gave up the idea as too complicated to explain.
    â€œI’m fine,” she said. “Really.” As the adults began to talk again, she glowered down at the rodent.
    â€œCan you draw me a skull and crossbones?” Raston begged.
    At last the adults pushed back their chairs. At a nod from her mother, Emmy left the room to get Mr. Peebles’s coat. But, as was usual with grown-ups, they couldn’t seem to stop talking. Emmy sat on a bench against the wall and waited with her eyes half