The Mystery Woman (Ladies of Lantern Str - By Amanda Quick Page 0,10

Marsh cannot afford to be connected to that sort of thing.”

“You are right, of course.” Abigail drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “We can only hope that this Mr. Gage will take great care to make certain that Euston’s disappearance will not cause any problems.”

Beatrice cleared her throat. “He did give the impression that he had some expertise in such matters.”

Abigail brightened. “All the more reason not to worry about Euston.”

“I would remind you that Euston was alive when I last saw him,” Beatrice said. “It is possible that Mr. Gage did not go to extremes tonight.”

“What concerns us at the moment,” Sara said, “is his interest in you, Beatrice. You are certain you do not recognize him from your days at Fleming’s Academy of the Occult?”

“Quite certain.” Beatrice drank some brandy and lowered the glass. “Believe me when I tell you that he is not a man that one would be likely to forget.”

Abigail raised her brows. “The scar is that bad?”

“It’s not the scar that makes him memorable,” Beatrice said. “Or the limp, for that matter. You’re sure you do not recognize his name?”

“Quite certain.” Abigail pursed her lips. “Although I suppose he could be a customer from the old days when we owned the bookshop. We had hundreds of patrons over the years. We cannot possibly remember all of their names.”

“I almost forgot, he gave me a card,” Beatrice said. She set aside her brandy glass and reached into the pocket of her gown. “I believe the name on it is that of his former employer. He seemed to think you would recognize it.”

Sara took her reading glasses off the table and propped them on her nose. “Let me see it.”

Beatrice handed her the card. When Sara looked at it her expression abruptly tightened in shock. She traced the lion seal with the tip of one finger.

“Mr. Smith,” she whispered. “But it’s not possible. Not after all this time.”

“Mr. Smith?” Abigail scowled. “There must be some mistake. Let me see that card.”

Sara handed the card to Abigail, who studied it in mounting disbelief that swiftly changed into openmouthed astonishment.

“Good heavens,” she whispered. She touched the seal. “Do you suppose he really is alive?”

“We always wondered about those rumors of his death,” Sara said.

Beatrice searched Sara’s face and then looked at Abigail. “Who is this Mr. Smith?”

“Damned if we ever knew,” Abigail said. “We never met him, of course. We dealt with his Messenger.”

Her ominous tone did not worry Beatrice nearly as much as the fact that the card was trembling in Abigail’s fingers. It took a great deal to make Abigail Flint shiver. She tended to live up to her surname.

“I’m sure Smith was not the Lion’s real name,” Sara said. “But that name and the seal were all we knew of him. As Abby explained, when he had dealings with us, he sent his Messenger.”

“Mr. Gage asked me to tell you that the Messenger sent his regards,” Beatrice said.

“Oh, dear,” Sara whispered. “This situation is growing more odd by the moment.”

“Can you describe this Messenger?” Beatrice asked.

“We can’t give you a physical description,” Abigail said. “When we met with him it was always in a location of his choice and he was always deep in the shadows. We never saw his face in the light.” She paused. “But I’m quite certain he did not walk with a limp. What do you think, Sara?”

“There was certainly no indication that he used a cane,” Sara said. “I remember how it always startled us when he spoke to us from the darkness of whatever place he had selected for a meeting. We never heard him arrive and we never heard him leave. It was as if he, himself, was a shadow.”

“Hmm,” Beatrice said. She thought about Gage’s halting stride and the way he leaned on his cane. “Well, accidents do happen. And I imagine that a man in his profession would attract a large number of enemies.”

“Very true,” Abigail said.

“You said this Messenger person worked for Mr. Smith,” Beatrice said. “I don’t understand Smith’s role in all this. Why did he require a messenger?”

Sara and Abby exchanged glances. Then Sara turned back to Beatrice.

“Abby and I long ago concluded that Smith was a player in the Great Game, as the press and the novelists like to call the business of espionage.”

“Do you mean to say that he was a spy?” Beatrice asked.

“A master spy,” Abigail said. “The Messenger assured us that his employer was in the