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you.”
    “Whatever for, Miss Lamb?” No one had ever addressed him in that fashion.
    “You have a quest. A purpose.”
    “I would not put it as highly as that.”
    “Oh, I would.”
    “Then perhaps I can share this—this quest—with you.”
    “In what way?”
    “I can bring my discoveries to you. They will please my father, and they will also please you.”
    “Would you do that?”
    “Of course. Willingly. Gladly. And of course you may tell your brother.”
             
    T HEY HAD WALKED as far as Catton Street, but they seemed reluctant to part. So Mary walked back with him down High Holborn. She had the strangest interest in him—as she put it to herself—but she was quite at a loss to explain the reasons for this. She sensed that he had no mother but, again, she could have given no explanation; it was his intensity, perhaps, that suggested some inner unease. She remarked later to her brother that he had “lonely eyes,” and Charles laughed at her sentimentality; but, for her, it was an exact description.
    “Lonely is not far from lovely,” he said.
    “Be serious, Charles.” There was some colour in her cheeks. “He needs protecting.”
    “From what?”
    “I am not sure. There seems to be some battle between himself and the world. He believes himself to be the injured party, and he will keep up the fight.”

chapter five
    W HEN WILLIAM IRELAND returned to the bookshop, having left Mary Lamb at the corner of High Holborn and watched her disappear into the crowd, he found his father alone. Samuel Ireland was walking backwards and forwards, his patent-leather shoes rapping upon the wooden floor.
    “Mr. Malone sends his compliments. He had to leave for an appointment with his oculist.”
    “He was pleased, was he not?”
    “Delighted. Beyond measure.” He walked the length of the shop before turning to his son. “When do you next see your patron?”
    William had not related to him as much as he had told Mary Lamb; he had informed his father only that he had found the deed to a house in the library of an elderly lady who, in return, had given him permission to keep certain items which were of no interest to her. They were, as far as she was concerned, “mere paper.” He also described to him how he had sworn a solemn oath never to reveal her name. William knew his father to be excitable, grandiloquent and liable to spin extravagant schemes. It had been his father’s sudden impulse, for example, to bring in Edmond Malone.
    “I said that I would call upon her in a few days.”
    “A few days? Do you know what we have here?”
    “A seal.”
    “A mine. A mine of gold. Do you know the price at auction of such things?”
    “I have never considered it, Father.”
    “I presume your patron does not, either, or she would not put them at your disposal. Or shall I call her your benefactor?” If there was a tone of irony in his voice, William refused to notice it. “She is above such things, is she?”
    “They are simply a gift. As I told you, I found a deed to her late husband’s house—”
    “And they have no monetary worth for you?” Samuel Ireland resumed his pacing about the shop. It was clear to William that he was possessed by some strange energy, or vigour, which he did not try to conceal. “Let me ask you this, William. Do you have it within you to improve yourself? To succeed in this life?”
    It was a challenge, not a question. “I hope so. I presume so.”
    “Then you must seize your opportunity. I am convinced that there will be more Shakespearian papers. To find a deed and a seal in one place is beyond mere coincidence. You must seek them out, William.” He turned his back, in order to rearrange some books upon a shelf. “Your patron need not know. We can sell them privately.”
    William noticed a white hair on the back of his father’s jacket, and resisted the urge to brush it away. “They cannot be sold, Father.”
    “Cannot?”
    “I will not profit from her