“Three, now,” said Iris, holding up her cup in salute.

“You count this as a date?”

“I do. One of the better ones I’ve had, to tell the truth.”

“Is that a fact?” asked Archie, pleased. “Well, in any case, it’s too early to be talking like this. But I like talking like this, and I ain’t never talked like this to anyone before. So, what I wanted to know was if the road is clear.”

“The road is clear, Archie. Where it goes—”

“Nobody knows,” he concluded. “But we could drive along for a while and see what’s around the next bend.”

“Yes,” said Iris. “I think we could.”

“Well, then my work ’ere is done,” said Archie, rising to his feet and putting on his fedora. “I’d kiss you good night, but you’re all red and blotchy.”

She got to her feet, pulled his head down to her level, and kissed his cheek.

“I’m not wearing lipstick,” she said, “so you don’t need to wipe anything off. Unless it’s germs.”

“I wash me face with carbolic soap at least every other week,” he said. “Feel better, Sparks. I’ll ring you up when larceny season ’its another lull.”

“Good night, Archie.”

She closed the door after him, then listened to his footsteps recede down the hallway.

I’m dating a gangster, she thought. That can only go well.

Gwen was on the telephone when Iris arrived at the office the next morning.

“And after that?” she was saying, jotting something down on her notepad. “I see. No, I know where that is. I’ve taken Little Ronnie to the museum. That was Greenwich eight-three-nine-nine? Got it. You’ve been a tremendous help, Squiffy. Thanks so much, and we’ll see you at Melissa’s wedding. Goodbye.”

“‘Squiffy’?” asked Iris as she sat behind her desk.

Her cold was improving, thanks to Archie’s prescriptions. She had taken another dose of the bottled one before coming to work.

“That’s Rear Admiral Squiffy to you,” said Gwen. “People started calling him Squiffy because he spent so much time at sea that he’d walk like a drunk man for the first few days back until he got his land legs again.”

“And what did Rear Admiral Squiffy tell you?”

“That the captain of the Calypso when they rescued Prince Andrea was one Herbert Buchanan-Wollaston.”

“I can almost hear you pronouncing the hyphen. And is Captain Buchanan-Wollaston still alive?”

“Alive, a vice admiral since thirty-two, retired and living in Greenwich near the National Maritime Museum. He should be in his late sixties by now.”

“How long did he command the Calypso?”

“That’s an interesting thing. He took command in September of twenty-one, and was replaced in December of twenty-two.”

“December of twenty-two? Right after delivering the prince and family to Brindisi?”

“Apparently so.”

“What ship did he go to next?”

“No ship at all for four years. A series of cushy desk jobs and training courses.”

“That is interesting,” said Iris.

“Yes,” said Gwen. “The two principal actors involved in spiriting the family away from danger were both rewarded with safer lives.”