“Mother Deare is dead. The admiral’s name. What is it?”

“Mother Deare dead? Oh, my! That’s certainly news for the street!”

“You know the news of the street twelve hours before it happens,” said Julian. “And you know what street it’s going to happen on. That’s why I’m here looking into your face.” Julian’s hand came up to smooth one of Britt’s sooty lapels. “You are the king of underworld knowledge. I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

“You flatter me. What can I say?”

“You can say the name, and please do it quickly because I really do despise roaches.”

“Hm. Unfortunately I do not know the name of the personage you seek.” From within the gentleman’s well-worn jacket, Britt’s fingers produced a pewter snuffbox. He opened it and took a whiff up each nostril as Julian waited for the next statement. Britt gave a polite little sneeze, wiped his nose with a cuff and then continued. “But, I do know of the professor’s current predicament.”

“Oh? What might that be?”

“The diminishment of his power. Dear boy, everyone knows it. Certainly you do. It seems a young stripling from the colonies has weakened Danton’s hold on … well … his hold on everything. I am not aware of the name, but I have heard this upstart has not only upset the professor’s business interests, but nearly destroyed that island of his he prizes so highly. Therefore the other sharks in this sea of ours smell blood and are gathering to consume the body. Isn’t that correct?”

Matthew almost said Yes it is, but he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the table as the next roaches were dabbed with paint for their race.

“No comment,” said Julian.

“And that means correct,” Britt answered with the sly slip of a smile. “I’m sure it will be common knowledge soon, and perhaps an item for all to read in the Pin.”

“The only item that currently concerns me is the admiral’s name, which I’m sure you have but which you for some reason refuse to reveal. All right then, what’s your price?”

“My price? Oh Julian, not everything comes down to money.”

“Ha!” It was a laugh without mirth from the slate-eyed face. “Now that’s a lie for the ages.”

“You hurt my heart, dear boy. And I thought I taught you such good manners.” Britt’s attention turned toward the man with the dead bugs in his wig. “Four shillings on … what’s that little one’s name?”

“Mongo,” came the reply.

“Four shillings on Mongo. He looks quick out the gate.” The coins went into the bowl along with the others being deposited there, and the wigged bugateer wet a pencil’s tip with his tongue and marked down the figure in a ratty-looking notebook. “Julian,” said Britt, “you should go now unless you’d like to place a bet upon Mongo, who appears to me a worthy contestant to win the next round. And please, this time keep your fist to yourself.”