The two windows on the ground floor of the club showed cracks of light between the curtains, and the barred outer door stood ajar, the lamp above it lit. I pulled out my watch, hidden on its chain under my shirt, and squinted at the face in the dim light. Half past eleven.

“I believe the members are arriving,” Evan said.

Two men in evening breeches and jackets had entered Bedford Street at the far end, from Chandos Street: one compact, with a smooth, athletic gait, the other built more on the stocky side. As they passed by a residence, the light from the windows momentarily caught their faces. Or what should have been their faces; they wore old-style mummer’s masks. The devil. And the king.

Of course, Dorothy had mentioned they wore masks.

“They are keen to keep their identities hidden,” I said.

“Indeed, and wearing them on the street before they even go inside,” Evan said. “Although that fellow is still putting his on.”

I peered at a third man, hurrying to catch up to the other two, trying to untangle the ribbons of his mask. Small and wiry. He seemed familiar. As he passed the glow of the house light, that familiarity hardened into recognition.

“Good God, that is George Whitmore. He is an undersecretary at the Alien Office.”

“You know him?”

“I have met him at routs and salons before, but we are not really acquainted. More importantly, do you know him?”

Evan shook his head. “He’s a good ten years younger than me. He’d have been a child when I was sent to Botany Bay.”

True, there could be no direct association there. Yet our meeting at the Berry sisters’ salon and his arrival at the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin felt somehow connected.

Perhaps it was coincidence.

Then again, we were seeking a man of high rank affiliated with the Magistrates’ Court or Home Office, and here was one before us. But if he was somehow involved, surely he would have known our connection to Lord Evan when we met him at the Berrys’ circle. I had certainly seen no evidence of that knowledge, although, admittedly, I had not been searching for it—my run-in with Mulholland had been after the circle. Still, if he had known of our connection, he must be highly skilled in deception. An entirely possible proposition: he was, after all, serving in the Alien Office, and deceit was their business.

“What about the other two, anything about them that you recognize?” I asked.

Evan watched the three men climb the steps up to the front door. “No. Although I would say that the other two are noblemen by the quality of their clothes and the way they walk.”

“The way they walk?”

“Do you not see? They own the world, Gus.”

Another echo of Long Sal’s wisdom.