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she’d seen boxes of this sort in the window of a firm of Oxford Street instrument-makers. Mick handled it with a caution that was very nearly comical, like some Papist called upon to move the dust of a dead Pope. Caught up in a sudden mood of childlike anticipation, she forgot the man called Corny and Mick’s worrying talk about playing opposite him at the Garrick. There was something of the magician about Mick now, as he placed the gleaming rosewood case on the tablecloth. She almost expected him to furl back his cuffs: nothing here, you see, nothing here.
    His thumbs swung tiny brass hooks from a pair of miniature eyelets. He paused for effect.
    Sybil found that she was holding her breath. Had he brought a gift for her? Some token of her new status? Something to secretly mark her as his ‘prentice adventuress?
    Mick lifted the rosewood lid, with its sharp brass corners.
    It was filled with playing cards. Stuffed end to end with them, a score of decks at the least. Sybil’s heart fell.
    “You’ve seen nothing like this before,” he said. “I can assure you of that.”
    Mick pinched out the card nearest his right hand and displayed it for her. No, not a playing card, though near enough in size. It was made of some strange milky substance that was neither paper nor glass, very thin and glossy. Mick flexed it lightly between thumb and forefinger. It bent easily, but sprang rigid again as he released it.
    It was perforated with perhaps three dozen tightly spaced rows of circular holes, holes no larger than those in a good pearl button. Three of its corners were slightly rounded, while the fourth was trimmed off at an angle. Near the trimmed corner, someone had written “#I” in faint mauve ink.
    “Camphorated cellulose,” Mick declared, “the devil’s own stuff, should it touch fire, but naught else will serve the finer functions of the Napoleon.”
    Napoleon? Sybil was lost. “Is it a sort of kino card, Mick?”
    He beamed at her, delighted. She seemed to have said the right thing.
    “Have you never heard of the Great Napoleon ordinateur, the mightiest Engine of the French Academy? The London police Engines are mere toys beside it.”
    Sybil pretended to study the contents of the box, knowing it would please Mick. But it was merely a wooden box, quite handsomely made, lined with the green baize that covered billiard tables. It contained a very large quantity of the slick milky cards, perhaps several hundred.
    “Tell me what this is about, Mick.”
    He laughed, quite happily it seemed, and bent suddenly to kiss her mouth.
    “In time, in time.” He straightened, reinserted the card, lowered the lid, clicked the brass hooks into place. “Every brotherhood has its mysteries. Dandy Mick’s best guess is that nobody knows quite what it would mean to run this little stack. It would demonstrate a certain matter, prove a certain nested series of mathematical hypotheses . . . All matters quite arcane. And, by the by, it would make the name of Michael Radley shine like the very heavens in the clacking confraternity.” He winked. “The French clackers have their own brotherhoods, you know. Les Fils de Vaucanson, they call themselves. The Jacquardine Society. We’ll be showing those onion-eaters a thing or two.”
    He seemed drunk to her, now, though she knew he’d only had those two bottled ales. No, he was intoxicated by the idea of the cards in the box, whatever they might be.
    “This box and its contents are quite extraordinarily dear, Sybil.” He seated himself again and rummaged in the cheap black bag. It yielded a folded sheet of stout brown paper, an ordinary pair of stationery-shears, a roll of strong green twine. As Mick spoke, he unfolded the paper and began to wrap the box in it. “Very dear. Traveling with the General exposes a man to certain dangers. We’re off to Paris after the lecture, but tomorrow morning you’ll be taking this round to the Post Office in Great Portland Street.” Done with