Sir Thomas, deeply engrossed in a practical and pleasant discussion with Dr. Grant and another gentleman, was somewhat weary of interruptions, and weary of the long evening in general, but duly unperturbed. “Baddeley—be so kind as to remind Her Ladyship, every ballroom has its share of baboons. There is nothing one can do, when those of inferior breeding are allowed to mingle with the better set. One need but revise the regular invitation list to omit the undesirables next time. Do remind me on the morrow—”

“Begging pardon again, but one does not mean to speak in metaphor. There are actual baboons in the grand ballroom. Flesh and blood, simian. As early as this noon, perfectly inanimate and on display in this household, together with the other fruits of the Nile, as mummified objets d’art. At present, actively consuming the supper buffet spread. And tossing their own excrement at the serving staff.”

Sir Thomas became rather still.

“In addition,” Baddeley informed his master, “I am told there is a crocodile. A decidedly non-metaphorical one. Also initially hailing from the African Continent. Last seen in the drawing room, gnawing—apparently something one would rather not venture to guess. But, I am told, the divan is in shambles.”

“What of—the guests?

“Bedlam, sir.”

Returning in a run to the ballroom, was none other than William.

He had been just about to exit the house for the evening, when he came upon a terrifying sight in the tiny guest parlor near the entrance—a sight that made him turn and dash back, justly concerned on behalf of his dear sister’s safety.

“Hey-ho! Men! Anyone? A crocodile!” hallooed William, dashing through the lobby, “What a wonder! There’s a live crocodile in that parlor, I just saw it crush a sofa to death! Upon my word, if that sofa had once been alive it is far from being so now—”

William’s halfway-sarcastic laughing tone petered out into silence as soon as he looked inside the ballroom and saw what was taking place. His jaw momentarily slackened.

And then, with a brave sailor heave-ho cry, William jumped right in the thick of it, crying, “Fanny! Fear not, dear sister, I am coming!”

But before William took two steps into the room and attempted to engage a pair of mummies in proper midshipman-style combat, Miss Crawford suddenly appeared in his way.

“Stand clear, Miss Crawford!” cried William, drawing a sword. “Two of the enemy right behind you, starboard—”

But the lovely, delightful, charming, amiable Miss Crawford (whom William found “not bad at all” in the way of womanhood) suddenly . . . hissed at him. Her pretty dark eyes were glowing with a decidedly unnatural wicked light. And she parted her lovely mouth to display some rather sharp looking fangs.

“What in blazes—” began William. But in that moment, before Miss Crawford could strike, he was rescued by none other than his aunt Norris.