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in.
    After leaving the house in Lowndes Street, the satisfaction of having in some small part allayed Lady Halstead’s immediate anxiety had stayed with him through the rest of the day and the routinely uneventful evening that had followed, and had fired him to set out first thing that morning to consult with Lady Halstead’s man-of-business.
    While her ladyship appeared to have no suspicions of Runcorn, Montague would make up his own mind. Had the matter been one of embezzlement, he would have been far more skeptical, not to say distrustful, but as he strode along the pavement, he was more curious than concerned.
    An entire day and evening of allowing Lady Halstead’s “irregularities” to percolate in the deepest recesses of his brain had still not brought forth any possible solution. Far from being discouraged, he was even more enthused; it had been a long time since anything financial had managed to surprise him, much less intrigue him to this degree.
    He almost felt like a new man as he swung around the corner from Broad Street into Winchester Street. Runcorn’s offices were some way along, on the ground floor of a building near the elbow where Winchester Street turned north. There was a public house across the road, in the opposite corner of the bend, but the office of Runcorn and Son was flanked by a small printer on one side and a tobacconist’s on the other.
    The area was not as heavily dominated by businesses connected with finance as those streets and alleys close by the Bank of England, where Montague and his peers hung their plaques, yet Winchester Street was only a few blocks from that more established sector, and Runcorn’s office was a decent set of premises for a minor firm.
    Pausing before the door, Montague studied the faded lettering above the single broad window giving onto the pavement, then looked through the glass in the door itself, unsurprised to see lamps burning inside. The window allowed some light to penetrate, but not enough for a business that relied on reading figures upon figures.
    Opening the door, he went in. Pausing to shut the door, he surveyed the interior, more out of professional curiosity than anything else. Although poky, the office was very recognizable, at least to him; file boxes were piled high along the shelving occupying every square foot of wall, and formed a man-high stack in one corner. Papers were spread over the narrow desk behind which a clerk labored; the middle-aged man had looked up as Montague entered.
    Soberly attired in the proper manner for a clerk, the man rose and came forward. “Can I help you, sir?”
    Already reaching into his inner pocket, Montague withdrew his card case, extracted a card, and handed it to the clerk. “If Mr. Runcorn could spare me a few minutes of his time, I would like to consult him on the matter of the Halstead estate.”
    The clerk read the script on the card and his eyes widened. “Yes, of course, sir.” He waved to a pair of chairs set before the window. “Please take a seat, Mr. Montague, and I’ll inform Mr. Runcorn of your arrival.”
    Montague inclined his head and obligingly sat. He had no doubt Runcorn would see him. Even if the younger man had not been long enough in the business to recognize his name, the clerk certainly had and would duly inform his master.
    The clerk tapped on an inner door, then entered, shutting the door behind him.
    A moment later, the door opened again, and a man of some twenty-eight or so summers stood for a moment in the doorway, then came swiftly forward, Montague’s card in his hand.
    Montague rose as he approached.
    “Sir!” Runcorn Junior halted before him, his round face alight with childlike pleasure. He met Montague’s eyes, his own alive with an equal mixture of delight and conjecture, then he drew breath, reined in his excitement, and inclined his head. “It’s an honor, Mr. Montague, to welcome you to Runcorn and Son. How may we assist you?”
    Montague smiled approvingly.