“We will let them know that we know. They will mumble apologies, claim that they meant no harm, that they were merely formulating possible strategies, that their agents overreacted, and the cat-and-mouse game will begin all over again.”

My head suddenly started throbbing again and weariness and pain swept over me. I clutched at Daniel. “I’m not feeling very well,” I said. “Would you please take me home?”

.   .   .

Soon we were sitting side by side in a hansom as it clip-clopped southward through the park. It was a glorious evening. Children played and couples strolled in the balmy air. The trees glowed in late sunlight. It felt as if the whole world had suddenly been put right.

Daniel slipped his arm around my shoulder. “Molly—” he began.

“I know. It can never happen again. Don’t worry. I agree with you. I have no wish to go through that again ever. Let’s pick a date and get married soon.”

“September?” he suggested. “It’s a lovely month, isn’t it? Cooler, fall colors beginning. A perfect time in Westchester.”

As he spoke I pictured it: tables on the lawn, an open carriage from the church with my veil blowing in the breeze. It did seem rather inviting. “All right,” I said. “We’ll get married from your mother’s house if it means a lot to you, only I’m inviting all my friends and I don’t want to hear any complaints from you.”

He looked at me and laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of crossing someone who has just taken on the cream of German espionage and won,” he said. “I want you to know that I’m very impressed. Mr. Wilkie said it was too bad you were a woman.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said it was absolutely perfect that you were a woman because I was madly in love with you.”

I laughed and turned my face toward him to be kissed. A long time of silence then ensued.

“So you will agree to give up this detective business, as promised?” he asked.

“I suppose I’ll have to if I’m to be a married lady,” I said, “but I’m willing to offer my superior detecting skills to my husband, should he need them.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said.

“By the way, did you analyze that bloody rag I gave you?”

“We did,” he said. “It was pig’s blood. Your instincts were quite right.”

I allowed myself a little smirk, which then broadened as I remembered something else.

“Tell me,” I began, “have any forged banknotes turned up in Boston yet?”

He looked astonished. “How the deuce did you—”