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still able to help you with your case—,” Griffin began. His uncle’s glare cut him short. The woman was clearly confused, staring first at Griffin and then at his uncle. Then her expression grew frightened.
    â€œWhat’s going on? I demand to know where I’ve been taken and who you gentlemen are!”
    For the first time since Griffin had seen her, the woman seemed to have fully regained her faculties. Snodgrass fumbled while trying to search for an adequate explanation. Griffin stepped in.
    â€œMa’am, my name is Griffin Sharpe and this is my uncle, the brilliant inventor and crime expert Rupert Snodgrass. I happened upon you after you nearly injured yourself in a collision with the hansom cab I was riding in. Before you fainted, you mentioned that you wanted to speak with Sherlock Holmes, so I instructed the driver to take us to here, to 221 Baker Street.”
    Griffin hesitated before continuing. His uncle was staring at him with an unreadable expression. He knew he was on dangerous ground. But he felt that he must, no matter what the consequences, tell the truth. After taking a steadying breath, he continued, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes was not at home, and seeing no other option, I decided to alert my uncle, who is an expert in such matters, to your situation. He acted with immediate concern and brought you here, to the apartment next door.”
    The woman’s eyes narrowed as she absorbed the information. Griffin was pleased to notice the fear was already gone. After glancing around the room at the inventions that occupied nearly every space, she seemed to accept Griffin’s explanation of things.
    â€œYou mentioned that Mr. Snodgrass here is an expert on crime”—she turned to Griffin’s uncle and gave him a serious look—“and seeing that my situation is desperate, I do not care whether he is Sherlock Holmes or not. All I need is help.”
    Griffin noticed a slight relaxing of his uncle’s features at these words, evidently relieved that she was willing to overlook his lie. Clearly all that mattered now to his uncle was that he had a paying client. And especially that Sherlock Holmes was unable to get to her first.
    The woman turned back to Griffin and spoke. “You seem like a trustworthy young man. What I have to say is quite extraordinary. Therefore I ask you to believe that what I am about to tell you is the absolute truth.”
    Clearly irritated that the woman was directing her conversation at Griffin, Snodgrass interjected. “Madam, if I could have your attention, please. Simply relay the details of what is troubling you and I assure you, I will do all I can to help. My, er, nephew is newly arrived from America and has no experience in these sorts of matters. He’s just a boy.” Griffin’s uncle smiled in a condescending way, showing way too many teeth.
    Griffin was happy to see that this did not have any effect on the woman in the least. She continued to focus her attention on Griffin. She cleared her throat, straightened her rumpled dress, and said, “My name is Sarah Dent. My husband, Frederick, is a clockmaker. Two nights ago, he told me that a client had asked him to meet him on a matter of special business. It was about a very special clock, so special, in fact, that his client refused to bring it to the shop—for fear of being followed. He insisted that they meet by the banks of the River Thames at six o’clock the following morning instead.”
    She hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to continue. Her expression changed, and Griffin thought she looked as if she might cry.
    After waiting a moment, she said in a shaky voice, “Forgive me, but this next part is a bit difficult. All day I waited for my husband’s return. As the hour grew late, I began to wonder what had happened. My husband, you see, is very punctual. He lives by his pocket watch and has never been home any later than seven thirty.