Stricklend purses his lips. It is an article of minor importance, on the face of it. A small story to fill a small place in the late edition of the London paper. Except that he knows what, in reality, the death of the duke means. And he knows that Fordingbridge knows. What bothers him now, what causes him to furrow his brow and drop the paper onto his desk, is just how careful his clerk has been to keep what he knows from anyone else. It strikes him that folding a newspaper to highlight a particular story, and hurrying along public corridors with it with all too apparent eagerness bordering on excitement, does not demonstrate an awareness of how vital, how crucial, discretion and secrecy are to the success of certain plans. He sighs. It is clear to him that diligence and caution are lessons the pathetic little amanuensis needs to be taught over and over again.

“From where did you obtain this newspaper, Fordingbridge?” he inquires, his voice, as always, soft, his words considered.

“From a stand outside the main entrance, Mr. Stricklend, sir.”

“A stand outside the main entrance. I see. And how many people, do you think, observed you making your purchase?”

“Well, sir, the street was still busy, but I don’t suppose many were interested in my actions. Sir.” The clerk clasps his hands in front of him and begins to look increasingly uneasy.

“You don’t suppose … no, Fordingbridge, that is, I fear, a major part of the problem, your not supposing. You see, I imagine you took no trouble supposing how many people might also observe you noticing the article at the bottom of the page, and that they might have registered your interest in this piece, and that they might have become aware of the haste with which you sought to bring this news to my attention, suggesting that the article was, therefore, of no small interest … to me. Do you see where this might be leading us, Fordingbridge? Do you?”

The look of terror in Fordingbridge’s eyes suggests that he knows exactly where this might be leading them, and it is somewhere he wishes with all his being not to go.

“Oh, Mr. Stricklend, sir, I promise you, I was careful, truly, I was,” he whines, clasping and unclasping his hands, bending his feeble body even farther forward so that he is almost bowing before his master.

“But not careful enough,” says Stricklend. “I think you would agree, wouldn’t you, Fordingbridge? Or are you going to stand there and compound your stupidity by questioning my judgment on the matter, hmm?”

“Oh! No, sir, please…”

An expression of tedium passes over Stricklend’s face as he sends the Suffering Spell across the room. He finds it tiresome in the extreme that he has to so frequently admonish his servant and remind him of what will happen if he fails in his duties.