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trigger is here in the grip. I wager even a superhuman specimen like Gunputty will not be able to easily fend off a charge of this size.”
    “With any luck, we won’t run into that towel-headed furriner at all today. Meanwhile, don’t go a-pointin’ that cane at no helpless merchant who wants a few pence extra fer his termaters, like you usually do.”
    The pair exited the Cowperthwait manse. There, on the sidewalk, they encountered a familiar face: the gap-smiled countenance of little Tiptoft, the crossing-sweeper.
    “Hullo, kind sir. I seen your man scurryin’ about the town and took the liberty of followin’ him back here. This seems like a ritzy neighborhood with a lack of sweeperly competition. I shall reside here henceforth.”
    “God’s wounds! You—you can’t encamp outside my house like this. This is Mayfair, after all, not Covent Garden. What will the neighbors say?”
    “Doubtless they will be forever in your debt, sir, for securing such an asset to clean-footed traffic.”
    To illustrate his utility, Tiptoft dashed out into the street and begin switching away at a huge pile of accumulated manure, sending showers of offal left and right, bespattering passersby who paused to flourish their fists and utter imprecations.
    “Stop, stop, that’s enough! Look now, will you take this money and go away?”
    “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve got me mind fixed on a steady income.”
    “All right, all right. Let’s see—do you have any objections to living in my mews, with the horses?”
    “Horses is me bread and butter, so to speak, sir. I do not.”
    “Very well. You may live in the mews and receive meals and a weekly stipend, provided you ply your trade elsewhere.”
    “Agreed! And furthermore, it is to be understood that your honor will have unqualified first-call on me services.”
    The two shook hands on the deal. Then Cowperthwait said, “I cannot spend anymore time here dallying. We are in search of a woman.”
    “I could help there, too, sir.”
    “No, no, that’s fine. Goodbye for now, Tiptoft.”
    “Allow me to conduct you partway, sir.”
    With Tiptoft sweeping ahead like a dervish, Cowperthwait and McGroaty proceeded toward Kensington, eventually parting ways with their escort near Hyde Park, where the confluence of traffic provided a fertile field for his broom.
    Number Twelve Notting Hill Gate was a large edifice in the early Georgian mode, with freshly washed steps and starched curtains in the windows serving to conceal the interior. Using the knocker, which was shaped to resemble the ancient symbol of the Labrys, or double-headed ax, Cowperthwait sought admittance. The door was soon opened part way by an elderly maid, stopping at the short extent of a stout chain.
    “No visiting privileges for menfolk,” she said, and slammed the door.
    Cowperthwait was both baffled and slightly enraged. “I say—” He resumed knocking. The door opened once more, this time to reveal the snout of a large old-fashioned pistol aimed at his head.
    A stern and cultivated female voice spoke. “Perhaps you failed to comprehend my maid’s injunction. We do not permit husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles, employers or lovers entrance. When we admitted your wife, daughter, sister, niece, employee or paramour, it was under tragic circumstances which your presence would only aggravate and reinforce. Now, will you depart, or shall I blow your head off?”
    Cowperthwait’s ire won out over any fear. “Madam, I do not know any of the young ladies in your care, unless possibly it be the one whom I seek. My name is Cosmo Cowperthwait, and I merely wish to speak to you about, um, the missing wife of a friend.”
    The pistol dropped away. “Did you say Cowperthwait?”
    “Yes, that was the appellation.”
    “Author of the monograph ‘Sexual Dimorphism Among The Echinoderms, Focusing Particularly Upon The Asteroidea and Holothurioidea ’?”
    “The same.”
    “One moment.”
    The door shut, the chain rattled