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take another party with them. By the way, where are they?"
    "Oh," she drawled with a tone of disinterest. "They're around here somewhere. You really did make a bad impression on them, you know. It was all I could do to keep them from using you as a punching bag."
    "Sorry I wasn't more cooperative. When did you spot me?"
    "As soon as we left Hugh Hunt's," said Charity, "I was watching for you. But you're very good. A couple of times I thought I had lost you, but you were always there. You forced me to resort to the hired help."
    "Sorry."
    "Don't be. Now that we've met, Joe, perhaps we can work together."
    "On what?" he asked.
    She gently patted his cheek. "You don't have to pretend with me, Joe. Aren't we both after the same thing?"
    "Yes, I guess we are," Joe said. "Whose side are you on?"
    "On my side, darling. Of course." At the sound of a loud buzzer, her smile faded. "I'm afraid I have some other business to take care of, Joe. When I come back, you can fill me in on Hugh Hunt's plans. You won't go away, will you?"
    Joe rolled onto his back and smiled bitterly at her. Blowing him a kiss, she left the room, locking the door behind her, and walked down the stairs.
    Uncle Hugh's plans? he wondered. What had the woman meant? He sensed that she held the key to this game of spies, and he had until she returned to find that key.
    Joe curled up, bringing his knees to his chest, and strained to slip his hands under him. They were bound too tightly to slip easily over his hips. He wriggled, but it was no use. Joe was stronger than his brother, but Frank was the more agile of the two. Joe wished he had that agility now.
    He tried to remember how Frank would do it. Relaxation and concentration, that was the key.
    He calmed himself, took a deep breath, and held it. Then he let all the air out, tensed his hips and relaxed his arms as much as he could, and jerked his hands forward.
    Joe's hands slipped past his hips and slid to his ankles. Digging his fingers behind his heels, he forced off his shoes. His hands easily rounded his heels and toes. At last, his hands were in front of him, where he could use them.
    He fumbled at the knots in the ropes binding his ankles and clenched his teeth in silent frustration. His fingers were too numb to feel the knots. If he wanted to escape, he had to free his hands first and get the blood back into them.
    Wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing them to his chest, Joe rolled back and forth on his spine, faster and faster, until he lurched forward onto the balls of his feet. Hands in front of him, he toppled forward. His hands struck the floor and broke his fall, and he steadied himself. Now balanced on hands and feet, Joe straightened his legs. Slowly he raised his head and spine until he was standing up.
    He heard footsteps and voices on the stairs. Charity was coming back up, and she wasn't alone. He had no time to free himself.
    He clumsily hopped across the floor, and his weight smashing up and down made the old wooden floor quiver when he left the Persian rug. The voices and footsteps halted at the crashing, and someone on the stairs shouted his name. Then the footsteps thundered up the stairs—they were running now. Joe knew his only chance was to get to the door before they did.
    His eyes fixed on the doorknob and the lock an inch below it. He hopped closer and closer, his hands stretched out.
    The knob turned and the door began to open.
    With one last, desperate lunge, Joe rammed himself into the door, slamming it shut. Before whoever was on the other side of the door could react, Joe turned the lock.
    Fists pounded angrily on the door. "Joe!" Charity called. "Open up! We're not going to hurt you!"
    Joe ignored her, scanning the room. He spied a lamp made from a glass tube, an imitation of the old glass-topped candleholders used before electric lights became common. It was beautiful, he thought, but beauty was of no use to him now. He smashed the lamp to the floor, watching the glass