12

"In the reign of Queen Anne, it all began," sang the children, dancing in a ring in brilliant moonlight round the fountain in the forecourt of Bakerloo House.

"In the reign of King Jim, it was fairly grim,
In the reign of King John, it still went on,
In the reign of King Bill, it went on still,
In the reign of King Fred, it came to a head,
In the reign of King Bruce, they called a truce,
In the reign of King Walt, it came to a halt."

What the children were doing Simon could not see, and hardly cared; he was greatly astonished to find them there still, at this late hour of night.

"Don't you ever go to sleep?" he inquired, as they left their game, whatever it was, and came flocking about his horse, which had limped behind the hackney cab, all the way from Tower Hill.

"Can't sleep out-o'-doors this weather," they told him, laughing, "and you need a farden for a lollpoops' lodging."

"Well—here.... Split this among you—that'll house you all easily"—and Simon gave the nearest boy a gold guinea.

"Lud love you, sir; if I was to give that to a lodging 'ouse keeper, he'd think I'd prigged it; he'd turn me over to the rozzers, and I'd be in stir before you'd had your breakfast! Anyhow this night's almost over; 'tain't worth a farden now till day-glim, thanking you kindly all the same"—and the boy handed back the guinea. Simon searched for smaller coins but recollected that he had used up all his supply of change on the mouse he had bought from Penelope.

"We ain't come to beg, but to give you a warning," the boy said.

At this moment the door of Bakerloo House burst open and Dolly Buckle erupted from it, apron strings and cap ribbons flying distractedly.

"Oh, sir, oh, sir! Oh, your grace dear; oh, I'm that beshrought! Lady Sophie's never come home! And Jem's gone down to Wenlock and Mogg's gone to Bow Street—Oh, my lord, oh where can she be?"

Simon experienced a horrible sensation inside him, as if his heart had fallen through a hole into his stomach; now he began for the first time to understand what Sophie went through each time when he went off hunting wolves.

"When did she go out?" he asked the tearful Mrs. Buckle.

"Ha' past sivin—to a musical swarry at the margrave of Hodmedod. Didn't I always say that man was no better than he should be?"

"I'll ride to his house directly—only I need a fresh horse," said Simon.

"But Mogg's been there—to Cinnamon Court—and they said she'd gone to Wenlock—"

"Why in the world to Wenlock? Where is Mogg now? Oh, at Bow Street, you said—Well, I'll get a fresh horse—and clean clothes; then I'll go after Mogg."

Simon rode to the stable, rubbed down and fed his horse (Sim and Sam being both in bed), went indoors for a quick wash and to change his torn and bloodstained clothes, then led out a fresh mount.

He had not altered his intention of going to Cinnamon Court, but Dolly Buckle, though a well-meaning woman, was a gabster; half Chelsea would, by breakfast time, know anything he told her. So he said nothing of his plans.

The children were playing a new game as he rode back toward the gate.

"Limbery, limbery, lag lag lag," they sang:

"We'll put your head in the bag, bag, bag,
We'll turn you once, we'll turn you twice,
And we'll send you off to Paradise."

It seemed to be a kind of blindman's buff: a line of players ran through a "gate" made by two others, who grabbed one of them and blindfolded him by tying a kerchief over his eyes.

As Simon mounted and rode toward the gate, one such blindfolded player came racing straight in the direction of his horse, who shied and snorted and had to be soothed.

"Hey! Watch where you're going or you'll do yourself a mischief!" called Simon, but the blindfolded person—it was a girl—continued running till she stood by his horse's rein, then said quickly in a low voice:

"And the same to you, sir! Cinnamon ain't a bit good for you, sir, not this time o' day. What you want is a nice drop of early purl."

"Oh I do?" said Simon, staring very hard at the blindfolded girl. "And where will I get that?"

"At the Two Jolly Mermaids in Wapping, sir; my uncle Benge keeps that tavern, and he makes the purl real arominty."

"Thanks," said Simon. "I'll remember," and he rode out once more into the black streets of Chelsea. A bank of black cloud had swallowed the moon, and it was snowing again, hard.

Early purl, thought Simon, riding eastward, with the snow biting his face. Is that a trap, or is it good advice? On the whole he thought it would be good advice; he knew that the children were Sophie's friends.

The Two Jolly Mermaids turned out to be a sailors' tavern, open and active all night, as men came ashore from ships that had just tied up in Shadwell Basin or the London Docks. A large bright fire roared in each taproom, and a bottle over the private bar contained a life-size mermaid; Simon was interested to notice that it looked like Penelope Twite's handiwork.

When the landlord, a little brown gnome of a man, said to Simon, "What's your wish, guvnor?" Simon said, "A blindfold girl told me you make very good early purl."

"Oh, I do, your lordship, I do; the best you'll come across this side o' the River Leafy. Just you give me five minutes with a red-hot poker and a dram o' wormwood..."

The little brown man bustled away and presently came back with a steaming silver cup which smelled bitter and fragrant, like the bank of a brook in June.

"You look as if you've had a long night, your honor, but that'll wake you up for sure."

Leaning close as he handed over the mug, he murmured, "Sampan Stowage, my lord. Off of Green Bank. My Bess'll show you the way; 'tis a mite hard to puzzle out, on a dirty night such as this."

Simon drank down the early purl, which was amazingly powerful; paid for it, and left. Outside, holding his horse, he found a small girl, who looked extremely clean, as if she had recently been washed, hard, all over.

"You want to ride up in front of me?" Simon asked; and she said, "Oo, that'd be lush!" and reached up her arms. Simon swung her onto the pommel—she was light as a feather and he noticed that she smelled strongly of lavender.

Fairly soon, in fact, Simon was obliged to dismount and walk, leading the horse, while Bess, in the saddle, directed him through narrow precarious ways, around boat basins, and along catwalks, behind warehouses and over footbridges.

"Shall you ever be able to find your way back on your own?" he said.

"Lord bless you, yes, sir, I've been scoffling round these parts since I was out o' my cradle. I sells lavender to the sailormen, see; they dearly likes a bunch to take to sea, or give to their sweethearts. Here you are, your worship; now this 'ere warehouse is Sampan Stowage, that's Mr. Greenaway's place—and I thank your honor," she added gravely, as he gave her a sixpence after lifting her down. She skipped away into the gloom, lifting up a small powerful voice in a piercing cry of "Sweet lav-en-der!" just to keep in practice, Simon supposed, as there were no customers about in the snowy dark.

He found a place to tether his horse under a lean-to, then tapped at the big warehouse door that Bess had indicated.

"Who's there?" cried a voice inside.

"Lavender Bess brought me," replied Simon.

"Oh she did, did she?"

With a grinding of bolts a small wicket door in the large one was slowly unfastened.

A tall, massive man stood in the doorway. Simon saw first that his hair, outlined against firelight which shone behind him, was white; next, that he was blind.

From over his shoulder a startled voice cried, "Simon! Why, it's the Duke of Battersea, Father!"

"Good Lord, Podge, is that you?" exclaimed Simon.

"Pleased to meet you, young feller," said the tall man, taking Simon's hand in one that felt like a large flexible rock. "I've heard a deal about you from my son Dave here—"

A sort of human whirlwind at this moment hurtled forward and engulfed Simon; this turned out to be Dido.

"Simon! We thought as you was galloping twenty different ways inside of a pack of wolves! The papers said as you'd hopped the twig! My stars, ain't I just glad it's not so. And look—look who we've got here, just wait till you see—"

Her skinny hand pulled him forward across the floor of the warehouse, which was a vast dark warm place. Round the walls were piled coils of rope, every size from thin cord to massive cable as thick as a man's body; there were also chests and casks and barrels, many of which gave off a pungent smell of spice. In the middle a round brick hearth had its own chimney which disappeared upward into the dimness. A space around it was kept clear, to avoid fire risk probably, and in this space quite a number of persons were sitting or squatting or lolling; some seemed young, some much older, wearing Chelsea pensioners' uniforms; among them Simon was greatly amazed to discover his sister Sophie, reclining in a basket chair. A boy and a girl knelt beside her, rubbing her arms and legs.

"Dearest Sophie—am I glad to see you! How in the world did you get here?" asked Simon as Dido tugged him forward.

The blind man moved leisurely back to a great seat, obviously made to measure for him, from a massive oak cask divided into two semicircles which were nailed back to back.

"Simon! Thank heaven you are here! I am so very happy—" Just for a moment Sophie's composure faltered, and a tear slid down her cheek. She clasped Simon's hand tightly, then said, "Aren't we lucky to have found our way here? Mr. Greenaway has been so kind—And his apple cider punch is like nectar," she added, laughing.

"You, there, Wal—make up another jorum of apple punch for the dook!" instructed Mr. Greenaway. "And fetch him a bit o' bread and cheese—he looks worn to a raveling.... We keeps apples and foodstuffs in the other shed, where it's cool," he explained as Wally ran off. "This loft has to stay dry, for the spices, you see sir."

Simon sat on an upturned cask and was given food and drink by Wally while, in chorus, they all told him about the rescue of Sophie and the musical patients. At this recital he was so stunned that he could hardly speak—he hugged Dido speechlessly, and thumped Wally and Podge again and again, so hard that they almost fell down.

"If I'd only been there—" he kept saying. "Not that you needed me, I can see that! You managed so cleverly. But—to think of that margrave—just wait till I get my hands around his throat—"

"And just listen to this, Simon!" interrupted Dido. "Listen to what Sophie was just a-telling us when you began rat-tatting at the door—listen to what his nabs has planned!"

Sophie then described again the margrave's design to replace the king with an exact duplicate, the changeover to be made during the Thames tunnel procession.

"He has it all completely arranged. Though where he can find a man who is the exact image of King Richard, I cannot imagine."

"Oh, the man's found already," said Dido. "He ain't but a bowshot from here, lodging with my pa. I believe he don't exactly know yet what the margrave has in mind for him to do; thinks it's more of a stand-in fit-up, I reckon; just for times, now and again, you know, when the king has toothache and don't want to open Parliament. He ain't a bad cove—Mister van Doon—but he ain't right sharp. My notion is that by the time he cottons on to what he's in for, then it'll be too late for him to get out of it."

"We must let the king know at once!" said Simon, half starting out of his seat.

"Just a minute, young feller," said Mr. Greenaway in his deep voice. "Before you go rushing off like a bull at a postman, we gotta reckon the ins and outs of this."

Dido noticed how respectfully Wally and Podge attended to what their father said. Wisht I had a pa like that, she thought sadly. And she thought of her own father, sitting by the margrave's bed, playing his hoboy, keeping the margrave alive.... Better he should let the pesky bloke die, thought Dido.

She came back from her reverie to find that Mr. Greenaway was asking her a question.

"Lady Sophie allowed as how the margrave suffered some kind of fit. But you said later on the doctor looked hopeful—as if he was mending?"

"Yes ... he did," Dido said slowly, remembering again the view through the keyhole. "My pa's music seems to do his nabs a power o' good. Dr. Finster sets a lot o' store by it, I know. Maybe the guy just takes these fits every now and again; maybe they don't amount to much."

"So we have to reckon that the margrave will be back on his feet by tomorrow. 'Tis lucky you thought to put that skeleton in Lady Sophie's cell—we'll hope that makes him think she is dead. Any other road, her life'd not be worth a groat, now he's told her all that's in his mind."

Podge's eyes grew huge at this thought. "We've got to hide Sophie!" he cried fearfully. "She can't go home to Bakerloo House. Nor stay here—it's too close to Cinnamon Court. But where can she go that's safe?"

"I think I know a place where she could go," Simon said thoughtfully. "But—Mr. Greenaway, I see what you mean. If the king sends for Eisengrim and accuses him of the plot—of course he will deny it all—and there won't be any proof—"

"He'll ship van Doon back to Hanover directly," agreed Dido, nodding. "And then he'll just wait for another chance. And once he knows you've not been munched up by wolves, Simon, he'll be planning to do you in—like he done Lord Fo'castle and the dean."

"That's so; you'd best stay dead, dook, along with Lady Sophie," advised Mr. Greenaway.

"Put on a false beard," suggested Wally, his crossed eyes sparkling. "Podge can get you one. Podge is pals with a cove who sells false beards off a barrer. Or a wig—"

He and Podge began to discuss different methods of disguise for Simon.

Mr. Greenaway said to Sophie, "'Twere a piece of luck, ma'am, that my boys were able to get you away from Eisengrim. The man come to me once to have his hand read; I can read a person's hand with my fingers—'tis a gift came on me when I were a sailorman and blinded at sea; Eisengrim heard tell of it, and he come to me for a reading. He's a one that sets store by such matters," Mr. Greenaway said with a touch of contempt.

"Then I won't ask you to read my hand, Mr. Greenaway! ... He is a strange, dreadful man. I shall be grateful to your sons all my life: I would not have my life at all, if it weren't for them and Dido. What did you find in his hand? Oh, I believe I remember something—I remember that he said—he said it had been foretold that he would have luck in his sixty-first year. Was it you who told him that?"

"Aye—that and the bird. 'Twas I who told him—" Mr. Greenaway was silent for a moment. "I told him, too—what I found plain in his lifeline—that his way through the world would take a wondrous sharp turn when he found his path crossed by a girl who was dressed as a boy."

"Then that was why he was so anxious to have me on his side!" exclaimed Sophie. "I could not think why he should keep on urging me when I had made it so plain that I would do no such thing—And what about the bird?"

"The bird," said Mr. Greenaway, "would be the last thing he saw."

"No wonder he hates them so!"

"I've long wished to meet ye, ma'am," said Mr. Greenaway. "My boy Wally—he conducts the children's Birthday League, you know—he tells me he heard you were planning a scheme for homeless ones—"

"Yes, I am!" Despite the pain of her badly bruised and contused hands and feet, Sophie's face lit up with excitement. "Next year when I am eighteen, Mr. Greenaway—when my money comes out of trust and the lawyers can't stop me using it—I intend to start a series of houses where poor children without family may get decent food and lodging. Bakerloo House will be the first; I'm not allowed to use it yet—"

"'Tis a grand scheme, missie."

"Won't you call me Sophie?" she said, going a little pink. "I—I feel I know your son Podge so well..."

Simon said to Dido: "Just fancy, Dido! I've seen your sister, Penelope!"

"Never! You've seen Penny? Where?" Dido was all eager interest. "With her buttonhook beau? How's she doing? Is she better tempered than what she used to be?"

"No, the buttonhook dealer seems to have left her some time ago."

"Oh, then she certainly won't be in good skin. Poor old Penny-lope," said Dido, considering this. "Where is she? I'd not be sorry for a sight of her."

"I was wondering—" Simon leaned his head close to hers and talked fast and earnestly while Dido listened, nodding thoughtfully.

Podge said shyly to Sophie, "I've a little ivory looking glass for you, Miss Sophie—with roses round the frame; it's not much—I know you've plenty already—but I hoped you'd like it..."

Sophie said, "Oh, Podge! You spoil me—indeed you do!" But her voice was a little sad.

Wally said to Mr. Greenaway, "Dad, how're we a-going to get all these folk away from here without his nabs's guards smelling a rat? Or some o' those Bowmen bullyboys? They're always about and they're hand in glove—"

"No dole, boy; don't you fret your head. The Canterbury carrier comes past at seven. He'll not have a full load; we can stow a good few among the casks and bales—"

Simon, overhearing this, said, "Mr. Greenaway, does the carrier go up over Blackheath Edge?"

"I reckon he would, lad—for the price of a pot of porter."

"He shall have the price of a dozen pots—and gladly." Simon then reflected and said, "I wonder where I can get a china cup?"

"A cup, lad? I think I got a crate somewhere, real Chinese ones, come along with a load of spices from Poohoo Province; what you want a cup for?"

"If you have a crateful, I might as well have several!"

Sophie said to Dido: "As soon as it is safe for you to do so, I long for you to come and live with us at Bakerloo House. I so much want to hear all your adventures. The things you must have seen!"

Dido said rather gruffly, "If you're sartin sure I won't be in the way?"

"In the way? I can't imagine anything more delightful! Simon and I rattle about like two peas in a pod in that house. And next year—" Sophie hesitated and then said delicately, "If you do not wish to live with your father, that is?"

A cloud came over Dido's brow.

"No," she said. "No, I shan't want to live with Pa."

Sophie thought how very sad it must be to have a father whom one could not respect. She, too, had noticed the deference and devotion of Wally and Podge to their father. Her own father had died in the Hanoverian wars when she was a baby.

Podge said to Simon, "How do you plan to get word to the king—if you can't be seen?"

Simon said, "I've been thinking about that. What Wally said gave me a notion. Not false beards—wigs!"

"Wigs?"

"You'll have to help me, Podge."

"That's of course."

"Didn't you say you had a cousin who's a footman at St. James's Palace?"

As Podge listened he broke into a broad grin.

By degrees a dim, doubtful red glow began to show in the eastern sky—all there would be of a sunrise this wintry day. The snow had stopped for the moment, but cloud and fog hung low, and the cold was sharper than ever; on either side of the Thames the rim of ice now extended well out into the river, leaving only a narrow channel in the middle; soon that, too, would be frozen.

At half past seven the Canterbury carrier—a large hooded wagon which carried spices, dry goods, tea, and hides—paid its regular weekly visit to Mr. Greenaway's warehouse, bringing him apples from the Kentish orchards, taking back goods for the shops of Tonbridge, Maidstone, Ashford, and Canterbury. The margrave's guards, loitering about the streets of Wapping, let it pass unquestioned; they were accustomed to the sight of it.

Later Mr. Greenaway, assisted by cross-eyed Wally and another lad, wheeled out his apple barrow into Wapping High Street. The helper, who wore the jacket, badge, cap, and leathers of a charity boy, then strolled away, and by a circuitous route—down an alley to the river and along the ice at the edge—made his way to Bart's Building.

The house was locked. Dido used her key to let herself in. At once the sour choking smell of the wet wood made her cough, and a scared voice from upstairs called, "Who's there?"

"That you, Is? It's Dido."

"Oh, fank 'evvings! I was feared, all alone in the 'ouse."

"Why, where's Mr. van Doon?"

"There were a missidge come from his nabs to go round to Cinnamon Court. To see 'ow 'e were getting on in his talk learning. Off 'e went."

"What about the lollpoops?"

"They took theirselves off, same time as usual."

Dido noticed with approval that the lollpoops had tidied the rooms they used, and swept them too. Little Is had also done her best to clean some of the soot and grime from the rest of the house, and had washed the curtains in van Doon's room.

"D'you reckon the mister'll come back, miss?" she asked anxiously. "He be a right nice gem'mun."

"I dunno."

Tomorrow, Dido knew, was the day of the tunnel opening. Presumably the margrave had summoned van Doon for his final orders. Would he then remain at Cinnamon Court? That would complicate the plan which had been worked out in Mr. Greenaway's warehouse. Looking at the sorrowful, anxious face of Is, Dido said kindly, "Has he left his things?"

"Yus."

"Then he'll be back for them, you may lay."

In about half an hour brisk footsteps could be heard approaching along the cobbles, and a voice upraised in song heralded the approach, not of Mr. van Doon but of Mr. Twite.

"Oh, riddle me riddle me ravity," he sang:

"And diddle hey diddle dye dum,
I am known for my calmness and suavity
And the beautiful airs that I hum."

He ran up the steps, opened the door, and looked around him distastefully.

"Hey-day! What a sordid scene!" He peered into the charred and blackened room that had been Mrs. Bloodvessel's parlor. "Could you not have cleaned it up—cleared it out?"

"Not without you pay for a joiner, and a plasterer, and a glazier, to mend the walls and the windows and the hole in the floor," replied Dido.

"Ah, well, ah, well! 'Tis no great matter.... Hey, you," he said to Is. "Run round the corner and buy two gills of hot coffee, a half-quartern loaf, and one ounce of Vosper's Nautical Cut. And don't dillydally."

When she had slip-slopped off, Dido said, "You heard what happened to Mrs. B., Pa?"

"Ah, yes," he replied. "I read it in the early editions, delivered to Cinnamon Court. A sad fatality, but—let us agree—a blessed release also.... Now, daughter," he added, in quite a different voice, "have you considered any further upon the matter I alluded to the other evening?"

"Which matter was that, Pa?"

"Tush, child. You know quite well what I mean." He sang, "Oh, how I long to be queen, Pa, and summon my troops to review, watching this soldierly scene, Pa, as I munch on a tasty ragout.... Married to Henk van Doon, who is, I daresay, as good-natured a fellow as ever rode down the turnpike, you would be queen of this fair land, your life would be nothing but garnets and gravy; furthermore you would be able to do your loving old pa no end of good turns. Whereas," he went on warningly, "in any other circumstances whatsoever, I fear that his excellency would consider it the part of prudence to have you eliminated—now that your task of teaching our Netherlandish friend is complete."

"Eliminated?" said Dido.

"As he would have eliminated your lamented friend Simon—only the wolves got in first."

Mr. Twite pulled an evening paper from his pocket and pointed to the headlines:

HIS MAJESTY TO HONOR
DEAD DUKE OF BATTERSEA
King Richard to lay wreath under Thorn Tree
on Blackheath Edge

He read: "'His majesty will today pay tribute to the selfless gallantry of the duke of Battersea who died yesterday defending the capital from the assaults of wolves...' Excellent, valiant young man! He has saved the margrave a deal of trouble—"

"You mean," said Dido slowly, "—you mean the margrave always did plan to kill Simon anyway? When you promised me that if I stayed away from Simon, he'd be safe—when you promised that, you were only codding me? You didn't mean it at all?"

"I had to enlist your support in the best way that I could, my chickadee."

Dido had always known that her father was a liar. But still she had hoped to be able to believe him in this.

"Poor young fellow, cut off in his prime," sighed Mr. Twite, and he sang:

"Oh, willow, herb willow,
Drop a tear on the pillow
And toll out the knell, oh,
For that charming young fellow!"

"Persuade your father, if you can, that you are still ready to do what he suggests. That way, he may tell you more of the margrave's intentions," Simon had said to Dido, and she had promised to do her best. But now, faced with the flat fact of her father's falseness, she found that she could not pretend.

"Then I think that you're a pig, Pa, and I don't want no part at all in the business," she said baldly.

"In that case, my dovekin, I can only advise you to make yourself very, very scarce," replied Mr. Twite, without any particular sign of dismay. He was wandering about, collecting such of his belongings as were undamaged, and stuffing them into a canvas bag. "Yes indeed, I would certainly recommend that you leave the city without delay, or you are likely to meet with a fate similar to that of your redheaded young acquaintance."

"What?" gasped Dido. "Which one? What are you talking about, Pa?"—as the Slut came back with the bread, tobacco, and a tin jug of coffee. "What do you mean?"

Mr. Twite drank half the coffee before replying.

"Why, his excellency took a notion that the escape of all those young persons and elderly characters from the cellar had been somehow abetted by that redheaded boy—the porter revived and saw him running up the stairs, it seems, around that time; so they tied his feet together and dropped him out of the saloon window, to see if he would break the ice. He did break it, and that was his finis, poor fellow. He went under and was seen no more."

Mr. Twite sang mournfully, with his mouth full of bread and coffee:

"Oh what a fearful finish
To sink beneath the ice;
But let your tears diminish,
He's now in Paradise."

Dido was so choked with grief and indignation that she could not speak. Besides, what would be the use? The deed was done, nothing would bring the redheaded boy back to life. And I never even knew his name, she thought wretchedly. And he would have liked to come with us—I saw that. Why, why didn't I ask him? Now he'd be safe and well. Just wait till I tell Simon and he tells the king what that monster has done. Killing a person just like that. I suppose it's only one of dozens. But it seems different when it's a cove you know, as has helped you.

"Are you going away, mister?" asked the Slut timidly, observing that Mr. Twite had now packed up all his things.

"That's the ticket," he replied carelessly, draining the last dregs of coffee. "I am va-ca-ting these prem-i-ses. And so is Mr. van Doon from tomorrow. I shall be residing with his excellency. This house will be shut up."

"What about me?" demanded Is. Her mouth drooped forlornly. "Where'll I go?"

"Don't ask me," replied Mr. Twite airily, poking a couple of hoboys into the interstices of his bag. "His excellency certainly don't want a little drabble like you about the place. You'd best go back where you came from."

"But I never been no place but here!"

"Then you'll have to go on the streets with the rest of the lollpoops, I presume," said Mr. Twite indifferently, and he ran down the steps, whistling Calico Alley, without a backward look.

The two left behind stared after him, both through tears: Dido's of enraged grief, the Slut's of fright. Then they heard somebody else approaching and saw Mr, van Doon come gliding along the ice with the expert gait of a skater.

"Oh, mister! Oh, mister!" cried Is, and she ran to him joyfully. "Oh, I was so feared I'd never see you no more."

He patted her head very kindly, but the face he turned to Dido was white and haggard.

"What's up, then?" she asked him, though it was easy to guess.

"Come inside the house! It is too terrible to speak of in the street," he said with a look of horror, and led them up to his room.

To help him, for he seemed tongue-tied, Dido said, "His nabs has told you all he plans to do?"

"And what he has done already! All those people he has killed. That page—" Poor van Doon shuddered. "And now he says I am in too far to draw back. Oh, I am on the edge of a deep, dreadful cliff. What shall I do? What shall I do now?"

"I'll tell you what you gotta do," said Dido. "Just you listen to me."