“I don’t know why you took the fall for Dent’s murder,” he said finally, “but I’m still a believer in the Batman. Even if you’re not.”

Wayne looked at him.

“Why did you say your boys’ home used to be funded by the Wayne Foundation?”

“Because the money stopped.” Blake could tell Wayne was surprised by the news. He rose to his feet, disappointed by what he had had found at the mansion. “Might be time to get some fresh air, and start paying attention to details. Some of those details might need your help.”

He showed himself out.

Bruce and Alfred watched from the front hall as the patrol car drove away.

“You checked that name?” Bruce asked. He assumed Alfred had been listening in on his meeting with the young police officer. “Bane?” The word had sinister connotations. A cause of ruin, disaster, and death, at least according to Webster. Bruce wondered what kind of man would choose such a name for himself.

A man who wished to instill fear in others?

He understood the reasoning.

“Ran it through some databases,” Alfred said. The faithful butler had once served as an operative for British Intelligence, before going into service. His skills at garnering information still came in handy. “He’s a mercenary. No other known name. Never been seen or photographed without a mask. He and his men were behind a coup in West Africa that secured mining operations for our friend John Daggett.”

Wayne raised an eyebrow. Daggett was the kind of shark that gave rich tycoons a bad name.

“Now Daggett’s brought them here?” he asked.

“It would seem so,” Alfred replied. “I’ll keep digging.”

The butler turned to leave, but Wayne had another question.

“Why did the Wayne Foundation stop funding boys’ homes in the city?”

“The Foundation is funded from the profits of Wayne Enterprises,” Alfred reminded him. “There have to be some.”

Bruce’s expression fell. Recent years had taken their toll on the company Bruce’s ancestors had founded, but he hadn’t realized that Wayne Enterprises’ financial reverses had hurt the charities that depended on its largesse. He rebuked himself for not paying closer attention.

“Time to talk to Mr. Fox, I think,” Bruce declared.

Lucius Fox was the chief executive officer of Wayne Enterprises, and had been for several years now. Bruce trusted him almost as much as he trusted Alfred.

“I’ll get him on the phone,” Alfred said.

“No.” Bruce glanced out the front door. Marble steps led down to the gated front drive. “Do we still have any cars around the place?”

Alfred smiled.

“One or two.”

Good, Bruce thought. “And I need an appointment at the hospital. About my leg,” he added.

The leg had been bothering him for eight years now, ever since he’d fallen several stories. The fall had killed Harvey Dent. Bruce had merely injured his left knee. Perhaps for good.

“Which hospital, sir?”

“Whichever one Jim Gordon is in.”

Wayne Enterprises occupied a gleaming glass-and-steel skyscraper in downtown Gotham. The city’s monorail system and utilities were routed through the building, making it the unofficial center of the city.