I doubted he could smell anything but the mustiness of The Fort, but his suggestion got the guard thinking, and in a minute he stood up and put his face to the small barred window. “Very well, old man. I shall bring your food now, and you shall show me the trick with the coin.”

“It is agreed, my brother. I shall show you all manner of wonders, if my strength permits.”

The guard chuckled at the feeble bribery, and marched down the hallway, to my relief in the opposite direction. When he came to the second wall-lamp, he paused to glance briefly through the small barred window set into its door, but his look seemed a gesture of no great interest, merely habit. His feet scuffed down the hall; the moment he cleared the first curve, I was dashing for the tin box with the key.

The door opened, and there was Holmes, black clad, bareheaded. I threw myself at him. And my undemonstrative husband, disregarding our audience, responded with a reassuring vigour, his arms circling mine, muscles drawing tight as if he intended never to let me move away, his right hand pressing my head to his shoulder, fingers moving against my skull.

“I’m sorry we took so long,” I babbled. “It took me days to get out of the country, and then we couldn’t get here yesterday night, and I was afraid that tonight, too . . . But how did you know to send the guard away?”

“The lamps shift when one of the lower doors goes open. I thought this a likely time for it to be you. Did you bring what I asked?”

Reluctantly, I stood away, although my hand lingered near his, and his grey eyes studied my face as if it had been months, a smile playing across his mouth. “We did, but we won’t need them, now that the guard’s gone.”

“And the key?”

“It’s—” But the key was not in the cell door, and when I looked for Nesbit, I found him at the other door, drawing it open, standing back.

His face was alight with the intensity of his pleasure, and he thrust out his hand with only a degree less enthusiasm than I had embraced Holmes. The prisoner of the second cell emerged into the dim light, his hand preceding him out of the door.

“Captain Nesbit,” said a low voice, its English lightly accented. “I am so very pleased to see you.”

“Mr O’Hara.” That was all, but he might as well have dropped onto his knee and said the words “My Lord.” All the love and respect of a student for his tutor welled into Nesbit’s voice, relief and affection and just a hint of amusement, that they should find themselves in this place.