Before the passengers could disembark, a small, rotund man came barreling down the steps and across the footpath, clapping his hands delightedly. He was impeccably dressed in a gold-brocade waistcoat and navy trousers. But what really caught Chevie’s attention was the purple jeweled turban perched on his head.

“Visitors,” he sang. “Visitors today for Tibor.”

The man leaped nimbly onto the carriage step and flung the lacquered wooden door wide.

“Children, welcome,” he said, poking his head into the doorway. His broad smile changed to pantomime horror when he saw the manacles. “But no! This is unspeakable! Remove these chains from the delicate limbs of my guests. Tout de suite!”

Jeeves was somewhere between starstruck and dutiful. “I dunno, Mr. Charismo. King Otto told me not to take off the bracelets till we get inside the house. I adores yer work, by-theby. Behold the Rooftop Fiddler is the wife’s absolute favorite.”

Tibor Charismo’s eyes flared, and Chevie thought she spotted eyeliner. “Inside the house? You will never set foot in my dwelling. The carpets are from Arabia, for heaven’s sake.”

It pained Jeeves to argue with his wife’s hero, but he knew that Otto was a stickler for his orders being followed. “Be that as it be, but orders is orders, sure as the early bird and so forth.”

Chevie noticed that Charismo was sporting a molded theater mask that covered the left side of his face from hairline to cheekbone. It was cleverly painted to blend in and would only be noticed close up. Chevie wondered if this was a kind of show-business affectation, like the turban, or did it hide something?

Charismo’s curled mustache actually quivered with rage. “I do not understand you, sir. Tell Charismo your name.”

Jeeves pressed himself against the carriage wall. “There’s no call to be looking for a man’s name when he’s only doing his job.”

“Don’t tell him, Ben,” advised Noble. “He’ll have the evil eye on you.”

Jeeves actually shrieked. “You glocky toad.”

“Aha!” said Charismo. “Benjamin!”

Noble rolled his eyes. “Calm yourself, there must be dozens of Bens in London. He don’t know Jeeves, does he?”

Chevie groaned. Stupid criminals were stupid criminals in any century.

Charismo placed the thumb of his right hand on a large ruby in his turban, then pointed the index finger at Jeeves, who at this point was cowering in the corner.

“Benjamin Jeeves,” he intoned, and by some trick of the light his eyes seemed to glow. “Beeenjamin Jeeeeeeeves.”

And that was all it took. “Look, Mr. Charismo, see,” said Jeeves, fumbling a key from the band of his tatty hat and getting to work on Chevie’s handcuffs. “I am removing the bracelets. No need to look into my future.”

Charismo broke contact with his ruby. “Very well, uncouth lout. Now free the boy.”