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concluded with, “The most pertinent fact is that it was the same man who whisked each of the four boys away,” he looked and felt distinctly grim.
    Stokes’s face had hardened. His eyes had narrowed, darkening. “You want my opinion?” Barnaby nodded. “I don’t like the sound of it any more than you do.”
    Sitting back in his chair, Stokes tapped one spatulate fingertip on his desk. “Let’s consider—what use could someone make of four—at least four—seven-to ten-year-old boys, all from the East End?” Without pause, Stokes answered the question. “Brothels. Cabin boys. Chimney sweeps. Burglars’ boys. Just to cite the more obvious.”
    Barnaby grimaced; folding his hands over his waistcoat, he looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not so sure of the brothels, thank heaven. Surely they wouldn’t restrict themselves to the East End for such prey.”
    “We don’t know how widespread this is. We might have heard about the East End cases simply because it’s the administrator at the Foundling House who called you in—and they deal mostly with the East End.”
    “True.” Lowering his gaze, Barnaby fixed it on Stokes. “So what do you think?”
    Stokes’s gaze grew distant. Barnaby let the silence stretch, having a fairly good idea of the issues with which Stokes was wrestling.
    Eventually, a slow, predatory smile curved Stokes’s thin lips. Herefocused on Barnaby. “As you know, normally we’d have no chance of getting permission to put any real effort into this—into finding four pauper boys. However, those possible uses we mentioned—none of them are good. All are, in themselves, crimes worthy of attention. It occurs to me, what with the way your recent success in dealing with tonnish villains has played out politically, and given the governors are so constantly exhorting us to be seen to be evenhanded in our efforts, that perhaps I might present this case as an opportunity to demonstrate that the force is not solely interested in crimes affecting the nobs, but equally prepared to act to protect innocents from the lower walks of life.”
    “You might point out that at present, crime among the nobs is at a seasonal low.” Tilting his head, Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. “So, do you think you can get permission to work on this?”
    A moment passed, then Stokes’s lips firmed. “I believe I can make this play into their prejudices. And their politics.”
    “Anything I can do to help?”
    “You might drop a line to your father, just to shore up support in case of need, but other than that…I believe I’ll manage.”
    “Good.” Barnaby sat up. “Does that mean you, specifically, will be joining in?”
    Stokes looked at the stack of papers by his elbow. “Oh, yes. I’m definitely dealing myself into this game.”
    Grinning, Barnaby rose.
    Stokes looked up. “I should be able to catch the commissioner later today. I’ll send word as soon as I get clearance.” Rising, Stokes offered his hand.
    Barnaby clasped it, then released it and saluted. “I’ll leave you to your persuasions.”
    He headed for the door.
    “One thing.”
    Stokes’s voice halted Barnaby in the doorway; he looked back.
    Stokes was already clearing away his papers. “You might like to ask the Foundling House’s administrator if there was anything those boys had in common. Any common feature—were they all small, all tall, all large, all thin. From good homes or the dregs. That might give us some clue as to what whoever has snatched them wants them for.”
    “Good idea. I’ll ask.” With another salute, Barnaby left.
     
    He’d said he’d ask, but he didn’t need to ask that day.
    He didn’t need to seek out Penelope Ashford that very afternoon to pick her brains. She’d mentioned she was usually only at the Foundling House in the mornings. Even if he found her, wherever she might be, she wouldn’t have her files to consult.
    Of course, all he’d learned of her suggested that she would be able to answer