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interested in asking their own questions than providing answers. Watch: Just to show you, Paul will ask the first adult crossing his path where to find Starkly’s curio shop.
    “And what is a young fellow like yourself doing out and about on his own, eh?”
    You see? Simple question, nonanswer. So we shall allow the adult to go on his way by calling to him in a loud voice so as to distract him, permitting Paul to slip sideways and disappear into the crowd of noontime buyers. After all, do we really wish to drag truant agents and such into a nice day as this? Certainly they have better things to do, as do we all.
    Paul made his way past the array of bookstores, fruit stands, clothing shops of endless variety. He was certain he was in the correct general area, but was still having trouble finding specifically the place he was looking for. Then he hit upon a notion. He recalled all the times that his mother had said that something was always in the last place one looks for it. So Paul resolved, in order to save time, to skip all the other places and head straight to the last one. Naturally he found the shop immediately.
    There was the door right in front of him, with a sign that said CURIOS etched in fading gilt letters. There was no mention of the name “Starkly,” but that did not deter Paul. He was quite certain that he was in the right place, and the reason was that he heard the bell calling him.
    Paul didn’t head straight into the shop. Instead, he stared at the dust-smeared front window, trying to make out anything there that might have some sort of value. And as he stood there, the front door to the place kept opening and closing, not because a flow of customers was steadily entering and leaving the shop, but because the (presumable) proprietor kept poking his head out, looking around, and then closing the door again, not unlike a rabbit peeking out of its hutch to make sure there were no predators about.
    Each time he did so, a small bell that hung upon the door chimed musically. But it did not ring in the same manner as other bells that Paul had heard in his life. Instead, it almost seemed to be calling to Paul, with a sense of urgency.
    Paul glanced right and left, not because he thought he was being observed but because that was simply what one was supposed to do when embarking on an adventure. Then he scampered across the busy street, walked up to the door, and thrust it open.
    He was powerfully struck by the thick, musty smell. It was almost as if he were entering another world altogether, for the one in which he lived seemed always to be focusing on what was happening next, whereas this place smelled of a past that would always be and a future that would never come.
    He sensed rather than saw a movement in the darkness, and then a man was standing over him. It was the very proprietor who had been poking his head out. He had a round club that Paul instantly recognized as a belaying pin, and he was holding it high over his head with the obvious intention of bringing it crashing down upon Paul’s skull.
    He froze as Paul stared at him. Nothing was said for a long moment, and then Paul said, “Are you planning to try and kill me with that?”
    “This? No,” the man immediately said. He had a gentle, soft-spoken manner, something more common to a schoolteacher perhaps. “I was simply holding it up to the light to see it better. Would you mind turning away, please? I can examine it better if you’re not watching.”
    “Is your name Starkly?”
    Starkly said nothing at first but merely pondered all the ways in which he could answer the question…none of which, as it happened, had the slightest relation to the truth. Paul, meantime, wisely decided not to wait for the answer to be forthcoming. “The Irish pirate told me to come here. He told me to tell you not to kill me.”
    “Oh. Did he?” Starkly lowered his arm and actually looked a bit relieved. “Probably all for the best. I’m out of practice