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her wanderings about the streets of London, Is heard Playland mentioned again. She was at Covent Garden market, very early, before daybreak, watching great trays of fruit and flowers being unloaded from the carters’ wagons, sniffing with relish at the fresh, earthy scent of leaves and roots, which, for an hour or so, prevailed over that of the acrid, coaly, pea-soup fog thickening the air and making it hard to see across the street.
    A few children were to be seen hereabouts, running across the slippery cobbles with baskets and trays balanced on their heads, weaving among the sharp-faced buyers from fruit-stalls and taverns and hotels.
    Is had edged among the group surrounding a hot-pie booth. She was listening to the shouts of the pie-man: ‘Hot eels! All hot! Penny pies! Penny Jennies! Trotters here a farden!’ when she heard a voice in her ear:
    ‘Hey – missy!’ whispered the voice. ‘ How about a ride on the Playland Express? ’
    And, at the same moment, she felt something gently slipped into her pocket.
    She looked round swiftly, but nobody near at hand seemed to be displaying the least interest in her.
    Drifting round a corner into a narrow alleyway, Is carefully investigated the contents of her pocket. Her first expectation was that she had been used as a car’s-paw for some stolen article which a pickpocket needed to get rid of in a hurry.
    But, to her great surprise, what she found was a species of wafer or pancake, very popular just at that season, and to be bought off pastry-cooks’ barrows all over London. They were sold in stacks called Quires of Paper, or singly, at a cost of about a ha’penny apiece.
    Written across this particular pancake in pink sugaricing letters, was the message: PLAYLAND EXPRESS EUSTON GREEN MIDNITE TONITE .
    ‘Croopus!’ said Is, much impressed.
    Although strongly tempted to eat the pancake (they were delicious, she had heard, flavoured with orange and nutmeg), she slid it back into her pocket, glanced about her warily to make certain that she was not the target for anyone’s special attention, and then set off, at a casual-seeming yet rapid saunter, for Shadwell.
    There, in the High Street, she found Wally at his usual post, selling tea, coffee and hot rolls. Even here, in Shadwell, the children who had once been in charge of the other market-stalls, offering apples, whelks, household articles and cheap clothing, had all been replaced by adults.
    ‘Toss you for a mug of hot!’ Is said pertly to Wally.
    ‘No charge, matey, it’s on the house!’ And he handed her a mug of brown, steaming liquid; hot, certainly, and tasting of the brown powder used for scouring cooks’ knives.
    ‘I got news!’ murmured Is, leaning close and blowing the steam from her mug.
    ‘I’ll be home at noon,’ murmured Wally in return.
    Back, therefore, in the privacy of the warehouse, Is showed her edible message to Wally and his father.
    ‘Now ain’t that cunning!’ mused Mr Greenaway, carefully investigating the cake with his big clever hands. ‘No wonder the constables and Bow Street chaps never picks up any clues. Here’s a billy-doo that ninety-nine boys and gals out of a hundred will gobble down as soon’s they done reading it – and then, where’s your evidence? That’s a real mob’s trick, and makes me even more positive this game is run by some big mogul who’s up to all the dodges. A devilish clever one. You got to watch yourself, dearie, every step of the way.’
    ‘Euston Green, at midnight,’ said Wally thoughtfully. ‘Seems to me I did hear tell of some goings-on up that way; there was a big clog factory on the edge o’ town, got burned out and, on account of some law-business, it can’t be rebuilded till they get it argued out. So there it stands to this day, empty and ruined and locked up. Just north o’ the Green, ’tis – and beyond it there’s a big old graveyard, all filled up with graves and supposed to be haunted. So no one goes nigh it.’
    ‘Well,