They came down like an avalanche of blue serge. It was a majestic sight; and underneath them, he was wearing a pair of enormous drawers made of some stripy material that looked exactly like the stuff the Mayor’s wife, still shrieking, was threshing and heaving and struggling to get out of.

That took less time to happen than it does to describe. In one moment, the place was in chaos. There was a second or two’s awed silence, as the audience tried to take in what had happened—and then, as one man, they turned to the creator of it all, the incomparable Max, and cheered him to the echo. They laughed, they clapped, they roared their approval—and the most enthusiastic applause of all came from Doctor Cadaverezzi.

“Bravo!” he cried. “Bravissimo! What brilliant shooting, Max!”

The best thing of all was Max’s face. He stood there quite awestruck, scratching his head with amazement as the chaos and the laughter spread. “Well, I’m blowed,” he said at last. “How did that happen?”

“I’m afraid you missed the target,” said the referee, trying to look serious so as not to offend the Mayor.

“Oh, was that it?” said Max. “Well, thanks for the musket, mate.” He handed it back, and came to lean against the barrier where we were standing, while the officials replaced the awning and the Mayor untangled his wife and Sergeant Snitsch retired behind the platform to attend to his trousers. The constable (dazed) and Doctor Cadaverezzi (beaming) had to go with him, as they were all chained together.

And as the next contestant took his place, there came a familiar voice from behind us.

“Good morning, girls!”

They turned in delight.

“Miss Davenport!” said Lucy.

“Oh, thank goodness—” said Charlotte, and then broke off, and curtsied to the old gentleman who stood behind Miss Davenport. He bowed just as politely in return, to the both of them, and I recognized the lawyer, Meister Haifisch, that cool old skeleton who’d come to see Count Karlstein (and it seemed like weeks ago, instead of three or four days).

Miss Davenport could see that we were all bursting with questions. She held up her hand.

“Do not let us interrupt the contest,” she said. “Lucy, your hair is remarkably disordered; and Charlotte, you have not washed your face since the day before yesterday; but otherwise you look quite well, quite well indeed. I am delighted to see you. But let us be quiet. The referee is about to call another contestant.”

The Mayor took a card from the hat and handed it to Herr Stanger.

“Peter Kelmar,” he called.

I gasped. Peter at last—and he wasn’t there! I could sense Ma, behind me, and Hannerl, too, biting their lips and clasping their hands with suspense; and I felt my heart beat a good deal faster, too.

“There he is!” cried Lucy, pointing.