The captive, now with his hands free and his face visible, was shoved towards them. Sally peered at him closely. The man smirked.

“No,” said Sally. “That’s not him at all.”

“Right,” said the man. “So I can go?”

“We’re not done with you,” said Sparks. “Thank you, Sally. Stand by for a moment.”

She beckoned to someone behind the table.

“The main point of Sally’s story was to show how we could get someone else to the rendezvous point ahead of us on short notice,” she said. “Obviously, two other men also got there: Mr. Magoulias and his killer, the limping man. You also saw the limping man?”

“Yes,” said the captive. “I don’t know when he got there. He must have come up from the other side. But I saw him come out.”

“So you would recognise him if you saw a photograph?”

“I would.”

“Mr. Cornell, I believe that’s your cue,” said Sparks.

A man stood behind the table. He was small, with thinning hair and a narrow nose on a narrow face. The sort of man who would be unnoticed in a crowd. Or standing alone.

“My name is Morris Cornell,” he said. “I am a licensed private investigator. I was hired by The Right Sort Marriage Bureau to maintain surveillance on the front entrance to their building on Saturday afternoon, and to photograph everyone going in and out. I was situated in a car parked about eighty feet down the block, and was using a Zeiss fifty-millimeter lens.”

He held up a manila folder, then removed a stack of photographs from it.

“These are the pictures I took. At one twenty-six, a Bentley pulled up in front of the building. Three people got out: the driver—a man—and two passengers, both women.”

He removed three pictures, showing close-ups of Stallings, Lady Matheson, and Mrs. Fisher.

“This woman is our contact with the Queen,” said Sparks, pointing out Lady Matheson. “With her are her secretary and bodyguard.”

“So much for keeping our identities hidden,” said Lady Matheson. “I’m taking this damned thing off. It’s ruined my hair.”

She peeled off her ski mask. Mrs. Fisher and Stallings followed her lead. Mrs. Fisher stood nervously, eyes shooting about, while Stallings stood expressionless, his body tensed and ready to leap into the fray.

“As you wish,” said Sparks. “Please proceed, Mr. Cornell.”

“Here you see them entering the building at one twenty-seven,” he said, holding up another picture. “You can get a glimpse of Miss Sparks at the door. Now, one minute later, this fellow shows up.”

The photograph showed a powerfully built man with blond hair, wearing a cheap brown suit that fit him tightly across his chest.

“The next picture shows him entering the building. There was a period of time when nothing happened. Then at eight minutes past two, he came out again. He moved quickly in my direction, then crossed the street. I got one more quick shot, which showed his face, then put my camera down so he wouldn’t see what I was doing. He got into a car across the street from me and drove off.”