Barnabus set his etched penny, the calling card of all the Dreadfuls, on a narrow table, adding to the pile already there. As the coin snapped against the tabletop, Nolan reached out and pressed the center of a carved flower on the entryway wall. That triggered a low scraping noise, followed by a wall panel sliding open, behind which was the DPS’s meeting room, a small-scale replica of the House of Commons.

Countless voices echoed out, filling the sparse entryway. Barnabus tipped his hat to Nolan, who’d set down the newspaper, his eyelids drooping. The man’d be snoozing in another minute.

With a quick smoothing of his side whiskers and mustache, Barnabus stepped inside, the wall sliding shut behind him. Martin Afola, one of the youngest members of the DPS, stood nearby and greeted him as he passed.

Three tiers of chairs sat in rows on either side of the room with a throne-like chair in the middle used by Fletcher Walker, the acting head of their organization. Barnabus made his way down the second row, stopping at the third chair from the far end—his regular seat located between Brogan Donnelly and Stone.

The former of the two, a ginger-haired Irishman, greeted him with a grin, as was customary for him.

The latter, a Black man from America’s South, greeted him with a silent nod, as was customary for him.

Barnabus set his cane under his chair, followed by his top hat. He hung his overcoat on the back of the chair, then took his seat.

“How is your wife faring?” he asked Brogan, both out of personal interest—they were friends, after all—and professional. Brogan’s newlywed wife, Vera, was recovering from catastrophic injuries sustained during the last time the DPS had tussled with the Mastiff.

“She is better every day.”

That was reassuring. “And how is married life treating you?”

“Married life is marvelous,” Brogan said. “I heartily recommend it.”

“You’re wasting your breath, Donnelly,” Stone said. “Doc’s as confirmed a bachelor as this world’s ever known.”

That was more of an exaggeration than either of these men knew, but being the resident bachelor had served Barnabus well.

Fletcher stepped up to his “throne” and called the gathered DPS members to attention. “With me, gentlemen and lady.”

Squaring his shoulders, Barnabus joined in the recitation of the society’s pledge and guiding statement.

“For the poor and infirm, the hopeless and voiceless, we do not relent. We do not forget. We are the Dread Penny Society.”

When Barnabus had heard their motto for the first time at his first meeting with the DPS, he knew he’d found where he belonged. They had summarized succinctly the principles that guided his own life. He’d vowed fifteen years earlier, upon the tragic death of his mother, to never relent, to never forget, and to save everyone he possibly could.