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them except a fellow called Harry Morrison, who was about the last one you’d expect him to take to. Not quite as high in society as the others, but they seemed to get along all right. Fogg thought he was too good for most of them since being taken up by Prinney, from what I could pick up. Only showed up for work two or three times a week, and then he only stayed for as long as it pleased him.
    “The fellow he worked for, if you can call it work, says he was only paid two hundred per annum, but he lived pretty high on the hog. Dressed up like a duke and had a new curricle and team. Joined a few expensive clubs, gambled. How did he afford that? It takes money to lose money. You mind Townsend said he wasn’t getting along with his folks. I wonder if his papa gave him enough allowance to cover all that high living.”
    Prance listened, then said, “Probably living on tick. Is it possible his debtors got him?”
    “That wouldn’t account for the missing ring and lock of hair Townsend told us about,” Coffen pointed out. “My thinking is, if he was gambling and living the high life, he was likely involved with women as well.”
    “If he was such a gent about town, it’s odd none of us ever ran into him,” Prance said.
    “No, it ain’t,” Coffen said. “He ran with Prinney’s set.”
    “Surely not. Prinney’s set is ancient,” Corinne objected. “A young fellow just down from university wouldn’t be comfortable with them. Townsend said he was artistic. I wonder what particular field he was interested in. Was it painting, drama, literature?”
    “I’ll have a word with Byron,” Prance said. “He would know if Fogg had any literary reputation.”
    “Yes, that’d make a decent excuse to call on him again,” Coffen said. Prance gave him a blistering look. “Never mind puffing up like a frog, Reg. Byron attracts people like a magnet attracts flies.”
    Prance sneered. “You speak the King’s English as badly as the old king himself. He, at least, has the excuse of being a German.”
    Coffen said, “Eh?” in an angry way, but didn’t take time to argue. “Since Fogg’s folks live fairly close to London, I plan to trot down there tomorrow,” he continued. “They have a place in Kent. Highgrove, it’s called. They grow hops. They ought to have some good beer, eh?”
    “Excellent!” Luten said.
    “You’re familiar with it?” Coffen asked, surprised.
    “With what? No, no. I mean it’s an excellent notion to go to Highgrove.”
    “Will you actually call on the Foggs?” Corinne asked.
    “I thought I’d toddle along for the funeral, as the saying goes.”
    “What saying is that?” Prance asked.
    “What I just said. Going to the funeral.”
    “That’s not a saying.”
    “Yes, it is. I just said it. I’ll let on I was a chum. Who’s to call me a liar when Henry is dead? I’ll see who’s there. It’s tomorrow, according to the fellows at Somerset House. None of them are going, except perhaps Harry Morrison, which tells you they had no good opinion of him there.”
    “I wonder if I would not be a more likely candidate for that job?” Prance said.
    “I see you’re dressed for it. You’re welcome to tag along,” Coffen said, with a steely shot from his blue eyes that said he didn’t mean to be left out. “And meanwhile, since you’re rigged out like a peacock in half mourning—”
    “I am not in half mourning! Can’t a man wear anything but black or blue without causing comment?”
    “If it didn’t cause comment, you wouldn’t wear it,” Coffen charged. “Just looking for a rule you can be an exception to, as usual. Why don’t you do something useful and run down to some of them artistic places to see if you can get a line on Fogg?”
    “What artistic places?” Prance asked, ignoring but not forgetting the slur on his toilette. He consoled himself by remembering one had always to consider the source of a compliment or insult.
    “Wherever you arty lads hang about. How