And finds a hovel at the close of day.

“No—Digby might well steal a turnip, but he would never eat it!” was Hetty’s evaluation of the danger. “And in any case, it grieves me to say it, but Digby’s present situation is much worse. You’ll be horrified to hear of it, Johnny! He’s applied for, and been given a post, at a . . . certain bureau at an address in Victoria Street in London, if you follow.”

“No! Do you mean . . .? He can’t have! Digby’s joined the Secret Service? I knew they were recruiting, but—Digby! What on earth would they do with him?”

“The last I heard from a disgusted Rosa, they were finding him surprisingly effective. He’s in the wilds of Dartmoor at the moment, learning fieldcraft. You know—tracking, shooting, skinning rabbits, killing people. Just their kind of man, apparently. Not such a hit with Rosa. She, I must say, sees no fun in introducing herself to the world as the wife of a—well, what exactly? No one’s allowed to know!”

But even marriage to someone in a shady government office with a staff of three men and a cat in Victoria Street was preferable to being linked with a lowly police inspector, was Redfyre’s grumpy conclusion.

His aunt read his thoughts, as she always had. “Cheer up, darling! Earwig’s back from Berlin on Saturday, and the dancing school opens its doors next week for the new season. Dorine took quite a fancy to you, in spite of your being a little slow on your backward flicks. Or was that too fast on your progressive rocks? I expect she’ll be able to help you work on both.

“Is she really French, you’re wondering? Oh.” Hetty sniffed, head to one side in consideration. “When she wants to be . . . or when you want her to be. So, have I earned my chocolate cake?”