“I don’t think so,” said the man. “The coppers are involved now. I feel a distinct lack of trust from your side.”

“And yet you’re here,” said Gwen. “How do we know those letters are the genuine article?”

“That’s your problem,” said the man.

“We aren’t paying for an envelope,” said Gwen. “You let us examine the letters, and we’ll decide whether they’re worth paying for.”

He hesitated.

“Nope, not convinced,” said Iris. “Take your counterfeit correspondence and scurry back to your burrow.”

He stepped up to Gwen’s desk and put the muzzle of the gun to her forehead. She looked him in the eyes unflinchingly.

“Where’s the money?” he asked.

“In a strongbox,” Iris said immediately.

“In here?”

“Yes,” said Iris. “Under my desk. Put that gun away, please.”

“Open it,” he said. “Nothing funny or your partner gets it.”

“Iris, don’t,” said Gwen.

“It’s only money, Gwen,” said Iris. “You’re worth far more than five thousand pounds to me.”

She bent down to open the strongbox. The man watched her closely.

“Wait,” he said when he heard it open. “Hands up slowly so I can see them. Now move away from the desk.”

Iris obeyed, keeping her hands in the air.

“Turn around,” he ordered when she was in the clear. “Put your hands on the blotter.”

She did. He stepped behind her, pressing the gun to her back, then patted her down thoroughly. Too thoroughly.

“You can’t do that!” protested Gwen.

“Let me know if you find anything interesting,” said Iris.

“You’re safe,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulder and shoving her into the corner of the room. “Now stay there. Keep those hands up.”

“I thought you wanted me to get you your money,” Iris said.

“You’re the dangerous one,” he said, moving behind her desk and squatting down to reach into the strongbox. “I don’t want you pulling anything on me. You’re the one with the knife.”

“And I’m the one with the gun,” said Gwen. “Please don’t move. I’m rather a good shot, not that I need to be from this close.”

He glanced over at her. She was still sitting behind her desk, but now held a silver-plated revolver in her right hand.

“Your turn for hands in the air,” she ordered. “Good. Now place your gun on the desk and sit on that chair.”

He placed the gun on Iris’s desk, then sat. Then his eyes widened.

“That’s a toy!” he said, lunging for his weapon.

“This isn’t,” said Iris, moving quickly.

She plunged her hand down on top of his, grabbing the gun with her left. He screamed in pain.

A dart pinned his hand to the desk.

“Well, I suppose it is a toy,” she said, stepping back and covering him. “But it’s a dangerous one, all the same.”

“You bloody stupid—”

“Not another word!” she snapped, raising the gun. “You’ve broken into our office, threatened us with a weapon, and manhandled us. I would be entirely within my rights to shoot you on the spot. Now sit.”