“That brings me to some b’ness,” said Nack. “I need ta’morra night off.”

“Tomorrow night? What’s the reason? I would bring it to your attention that you have worked only three nights this week, that you have a very short route and reasonable hours in a safe district and that I have pulled quite a few strings to get you a fair trial as a fledgling constable.”

“Fledglin’ or not, I’m in for a dice game at the Jackal and I mean to be there. So I need you to get me off ta’morra night.” Nack cocked his head to one side, his ears awaiting an affirmative reply.

Lillehorne shifted uneasily in his chair. He mused that if this damn fool before him didn’t know about the hundred pounds Lillehorne had skimmed from the New York treasury—and also about that certain lady of the town to whom most of the money had gone—then he would dismiss this request as much as he would’ve dismissed the demand for Nack to come with him to London. But there was the wife and her parents to consider, and God help the poor soul who crossed that bunch. Nack would certainly go running to them at the first opportunity to cause mischief, if he were not coddled in check.

“Very well,” came the reluctant answer. “I suspect, however, that your association with those cretins at the Jackal tavern might be your undoing.”

“I can handle m’self.” Even sitting down, Nack managed to swell his chest in indignant pride. “Anyways, they all knows I’m a constable and I’ve got the power of the law at my backside. Ain’t nobody givin’ me no trouble over there.” Nack took a drink of his coffee and continued scanning the Pin. “Ah!” he exclaimed, so loudly that two patrons at the next table nearly jumped out from under their wigs. “Here’s somethin’ for you! Lemme read it: An Open Letter to the London Law, What There Is Of It.” He looked up and grinned again, while Lillehorne’s face was a study in stone.

“Go ahead,” Lillehorne prompted, when Nack decided to play out the silence with mischievous glee.

Nack read, haltingly again: “It has come to our atten … attention … that our so-called officers of the law in our great city … have turned a blind eye … to several local crimes of which … most would be … shock … ed. The latest being … the mass mur … murder … of—”

“Give that to me!” Lillehorne nearly ripped the sheet out from under Nack’s paws. He positioned it to favorable lamplight and read aloud: “The mass murder in Whitechapel two weeks ago of the young men and women belonging to a group known as the ‘Black-Eyed Broodies’, a massacre upon which this publication has reported more thoroughly in our previous issues. While we certainly do not condone the activities of such groups, it is a crime upon itself that this particularly gruesome and demonically-inspired mass murder seems to be overlooked by our so-called officers of the law. Indeed, the murders among these groups are becoming common, no thanks to our fine officials who appear to be as equally frightened of these organizations as they are of the denizens of the shadows who use them for their evil purposes.” Lillehorne grimaced, but kept reading. “And yes, we dare to name names, among them Professor Fell, Colonel Phibes, and Maccabeus DeKay. Who can say what inhuman pestilence against society is being created even now, encouraged by the inattention—one might say the ineptitude—of our so-called officers of the law.”