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welcome, Mr Archer.’ She watched as he pulled out the slip of paper, looked at it, and visibly relieved carefully returned it to his wallet before placing that inside his jacket pocket. ‘I am sorry that the contents are, I suspect, somewhat depleted. I did inspect the wallet to determine your name and address, of course. And I confess I found that piece of paper. From your evident delight at finding it, I assume it is important to you.’
    She made it sound as if she was not interested. But George could tell from the way her eyes watched him over the lip of her teacup that Miss Oldfield was keen to know the truth. Her assessment of George’s behaviour betrayed a keen intelligence as well as her obvious beauty. In fact, there was also something about her manner which made him instantly trustful of her, and he considered telling her everything. But anxious not to appear too eager, in case she misinterpreted his motives, he asked instead: ‘You said in your letter that your father had lost his wallet?’
    She set down her tea cup carefully on its saucer.
    â€˜That is so. A young boy, little more than an urchin, made it look as if he had accidentally collided with father in the street yesterday. He realised that his wallet was missing, and I chased after the boy and caught him.’
    â€˜Did you really?’ George was unable to hide his surprise at this, and hoped she might interpret it as congratulation. ‘Well done,’ he added quickly.
    â€˜I demanded he return father’s wallet. Stupidly, I thought he had. But in fact, he gave me yours in its place.’
    George nodded thoughtfully. ‘And did the police not find your father’s wallet on his person?’ She looked away, glancing round the tea rooms as if someone at another table might be better placed to answer the question. George gave a short laugh. ‘Surely you marched the young scoundrel off to the police?’
    She returned her attention to her tea. ‘No, actually.’ She took a sip, set down the cup, straightened it on its saucer. ‘I let him go.’
    Before George could reply, she was leaning across the table, her hands pushed out in front of her so that they almost sent her teapot flying. Her words came out in a rush. ‘Oh I was stupid to do it, I know. But I suppose I felt sorry for him. I mean it can’t be much of a life can it, for a lad like that. Having to steal to get the money for food, living out on the streets because his mother has passed away and he can’t findhis father and sister. Living hand to mouth.’
    George sat back and folded his arms. He could not help but smile. ‘So you had quite a conversation with the young criminal then, before you set him free.’ He held up his hands to stop any protest. ‘You asked me about that slip of paper …’ He was leaning forward now, matching her pose. George wondered whether he should say nothing about the fragment of paper. But then again, just by having seen it Miss Oldfield might perhaps be in danger. Surely it was only right and proper at least to warn her of that possibility? ‘People have died, quite possibly because of that tiny scrap of paper,’ George said quietly. ‘I myself may be in danger.’
    They sat in silence for a moment after this. ‘My goodness, Mr Archer,’ she said at last, ‘you make it sound as if we are caught up in the events of a penny dreadful. I think perhaps you had better tell me your story.’
    She listened attentively as George spoke. It was, he found, a relief to tell someone finally about it. He started with the death of his poor friend Albert, who had died in his sleep – was it only last week? By the time he got to describe the break-in at the Museum and how the scarred man had lunged at him across Percy’s desk, Miss Oldfield was sitting with her eyes wide and her tea quite forgotten.
    He described how he had written to Augustus