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Authors: Madeleine E. Robins
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mum taught me ‘fore she died.” The boy, who gave his name as Ted, eyed his mates with some anxiety, but being orphaned apparently legitimized his literacy.
“Excellent. Then each morning you and—what is your name?” she indicated the ringleader.
“Bart, miss.”
“Ted and Bart shall gather up all the information and make up a report and leave it for me with the porter at Mrs. Brereton’s house.” She gave the direction. “He will give you your money. If you do not distribute the coins to all your mates, I shall hear about it.”
Bart nodded. “But what about sweepin’, miss?”
“Sweeping?” It was necessary for Miss Tolerance to reassure the boys that she did not wish them to stop sweeping, and more particularly that she did not require a cut of whatever money they took in. She had no interest in developing a syndicate of street-sweeps. She had the boys recite their instructions again, and left them to their watch. Not one of the boys had expressed any curiosity as to why she wanted the house watched. Clearly the motives of a madwoman with money to spend were less important than each boy getting his share.
Having put spies in place in the vicinity of Miss Evadne’s home, Miss Tolerance took another turn up the street and around the green in St. James’s Square. Upon her return she observed her agents at the corner of Jermyn Street sweeping the crossing and keeping covert watch upon the gray stone house. Pleased by the sight of youth at work, Miss Tolerance continued to the next part of her chore: discovering Miss Evadne’s family name.
Miss Tolerance extracted a slip of paper from her reticule and clutched it in her hand, peering at it with a good counterfeit of myopic anxiety. As she progressed along the street she squinted at the doors of the houses, looked to count their number, peered again at the paper. When a stout man in a leather apron backed his way from the tradesman’s entry of the house next door to that of her quarry, Miss Tolerance bustled up to him and asked, in the most agitated tones, whether this was number 11.
“Nah,” the man said shortly. He was carrying an empty cage; from the skirl of white feathers that eddied in the bottom of the cage it was evident he had been delivering poultry.
“Are you certain?” Miss Tolerance was insistent. “I am positive they said—Oh, dear. Are you certain that isn’t number 11? Where the Pontroys live?” She permitted her voice to tremble a little.
The poulterer regarded her with an expression of exasperation and dismay. “H’aint no Pontroys live there, miss. Naow, you’ll escuse me?” He hefted the cage and started up the stairs.
“Well, who does live here?”
“Family name of Hampton,” the man said.
“Hampton? No, that’s not right. Well, what of this one?” She pointed to the gray stone house. “Is that where the Pontroys live?”
“That’s Lord Lyne’s ‘ouse, miss. No Pontroys there, neither.”
“But I don’t want Lord Lyne. I was told specifically—” Miss Tolerance’s pitch climbed. “They told me number 11, Mrs. Pontr—and that’s not even number 11, you stupid man! Whatever shall I do?” Miss Tolerance turned her back on the poulterer and stalked off toward St. James’s Square, muttering unhappily.
When she turned the corner she tucked the scrap of paper into her reticule, called a chair, and gave the direction of Tarsio’s.
The Library at Tarsio’s Club was a small room generally reserved for the use of the club’s male subscribers. Women were permitted in the library only if a porter was sent beforehand to ascertain that feminine presence would not perturb the men dozing there over the newspapers.
Miss Tolerance, mindful of these rules, arrived at the club and at once enlisted Corton as her advance guard.
“I only need to look at a book for a few minutes, then I shall take myself back to the Ladies’ Salon,” she promised.
After this anxious preparation it was a disappointment
“Excellent. Then each morning you and—what is your name?” she indicated the ringleader.
“Bart, miss.”
“Ted and Bart shall gather up all the information and make up a report and leave it for me with the porter at Mrs. Brereton’s house.” She gave the direction. “He will give you your money. If you do not distribute the coins to all your mates, I shall hear about it.”
Bart nodded. “But what about sweepin’, miss?”
“Sweeping?” It was necessary for Miss Tolerance to reassure the boys that she did not wish them to stop sweeping, and more particularly that she did not require a cut of whatever money they took in. She had no interest in developing a syndicate of street-sweeps. She had the boys recite their instructions again, and left them to their watch. Not one of the boys had expressed any curiosity as to why she wanted the house watched. Clearly the motives of a madwoman with money to spend were less important than each boy getting his share.
Having put spies in place in the vicinity of Miss Evadne’s home, Miss Tolerance took another turn up the street and around the green in St. James’s Square. Upon her return she observed her agents at the corner of Jermyn Street sweeping the crossing and keeping covert watch upon the gray stone house. Pleased by the sight of youth at work, Miss Tolerance continued to the next part of her chore: discovering Miss Evadne’s family name.
Miss Tolerance extracted a slip of paper from her reticule and clutched it in her hand, peering at it with a good counterfeit of myopic anxiety. As she progressed along the street she squinted at the doors of the houses, looked to count their number, peered again at the paper. When a stout man in a leather apron backed his way from the tradesman’s entry of the house next door to that of her quarry, Miss Tolerance bustled up to him and asked, in the most agitated tones, whether this was number 11.
“Nah,” the man said shortly. He was carrying an empty cage; from the skirl of white feathers that eddied in the bottom of the cage it was evident he had been delivering poultry.
“Are you certain?” Miss Tolerance was insistent. “I am positive they said—Oh, dear. Are you certain that isn’t number 11? Where the Pontroys live?” She permitted her voice to tremble a little.
The poulterer regarded her with an expression of exasperation and dismay. “H’aint no Pontroys live there, miss. Naow, you’ll escuse me?” He hefted the cage and started up the stairs.
“Well, who does live here?”
“Family name of Hampton,” the man said.
“Hampton? No, that’s not right. Well, what of this one?” She pointed to the gray stone house. “Is that where the Pontroys live?”
“That’s Lord Lyne’s ‘ouse, miss. No Pontroys there, neither.”
“But I don’t want Lord Lyne. I was told specifically—” Miss Tolerance’s pitch climbed. “They told me number 11, Mrs. Pontr—and that’s not even number 11, you stupid man! Whatever shall I do?” Miss Tolerance turned her back on the poulterer and stalked off toward St. James’s Square, muttering unhappily.
When she turned the corner she tucked the scrap of paper into her reticule, called a chair, and gave the direction of Tarsio’s.
The Library at Tarsio’s Club was a small room generally reserved for the use of the club’s male subscribers. Women were permitted in the library only if a porter was sent beforehand to ascertain that feminine presence would not perturb the men dozing there over the newspapers.
Miss Tolerance, mindful of these rules, arrived at the club and at once enlisted Corton as her advance guard.
“I only need to look at a book for a few minutes, then I shall take myself back to the Ladies’ Salon,” she promised.
After this anxious preparation it was a disappointment
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