“Do you really expect me to have them arrested?” he asked.

“That has already been seen to, Prime Minister,” Felicity replied. “The director of the Metropolitan Police and his officers met them in the garden.”

The prime minister seemed to sag. “Good day to you, Dame Felicity, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone followed Felicity out of Number Ten and into the Bentley. She paused for a moment to advise the media to look to the PM for a statement, then got into the car and gave the driver another address.

Stone heaved a sigh of relief and mopped his brow.

A FEW MINUTES later, with Felicity still on her phone, the car was waved through a pair of discreet iron gates and into a small turnaround and then stopped before a pair of large black doors. A man in a severely cut suit waited under a portico.

“Pop the boot, please,” Felicity said to the driver. Then she turned toward Stone. “Thank you so very much, Stone.”

“Are you going to be safe now?”

“Never safer,” she said. She kissed him and got out of the car while the man in the suit held the door. He closed it firmly behind her.

“Where to, Mr. Barrington?”

“The Connaught Hotel,” he said, digging out his cell phone and calling for a reservation. What the hell, he thought. He might as well visit his tailor and see some friends while he was here. Then he had another thought. He fished Captain Suzanne Alley’s card from his pocket and dialed the number. He didn’t see why he should spend his evening in London alone.

Anyway, if he went straight back to New York, he’d have to attend Herbie Fisher’s wedding.

ABOUT THE TITLE

I have cheerfully stolen the title of this book from a friend, the distinguished Atlanta attorney Robert Steed. Bob has published several collections of short humor, one of them called Lucid Intervals. After reading it, I told him I admired his title and would, one day, steal it.

“Feel free,” Bob replied. (As an attorney, he knew that a title cannot be copyrighted.)

The day has come. Just to confirm things, I called him at his law office, as I had heard that he might have died; his secretary told me he was on vacation in Mexico. Since this did not sound like a euphemism for dead, I left a message for him.

On his return from Mexico, Bob called, and I declared my intentions with regard to his title. “Send me a copy,” he said.

I have done so.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.