This question was met with a moment’s silence, until Jeeves spoke. “Oh, ho! That’s a fine bluff. A man would have to admire a lie so brazen, would he not, Mr. Noble?”

Noble spoke. “Are you calling it, Jeeves? ’Cause I certainly ain’t.”

“It’s no bluff,” shouted Riley through the sacking. “Trussing us up was insult enough, but threatening our persons will land you in the river by moonlight.”

Noble whistled. “Malarkey does favor the river by moonlight for his bye-bye business.”

“There is a safe way to put the quiets on these two,” said the third man.

Riley heard the pop of a cork from a bottle, and a sharp odor cut through the dull musk of burlap.

Ether! he thought. They’re putting us under.

“Chevie!” he called. “Close yer gob.”

Jeeves cackled. “That’s wot I told her,” he said.

Riley felt a dampness spread across his face as the liquid anesthetic seeped through the material. He held his breath until one of the men jabbed him below the rib cage, forcing a sharp intake of etherized air.

I pray that Garrick is not already here or we’ll never wake up, was the last thought he had before his mind sank down like a stone dropped into the midnight Thames.

Riley did survive to wake up, but before he opened his eyes to whatever new dreadfulness awaited them, he spent a moment reexperiencing his visions from the wormhole.

My family lived in Brighton, where Father was in the FBI. Mother was Irish and the most beautiful lady I have ever seen. My mate Ginger is in actuality my own half brother, Tom. Ma and Pa were slaughtered for money by Albert Garrick. But who shelled out for the job? And was my own pa from the future? How do these strands tie together? Where is Tom now?

These were big bites of information to swallow in one gulp. Everything he had taken for gospel was a falsehood spooned into his ear by Garrick.

Riley opened his eyes and was relieved to find he could see. A second cause for relief was the sight of Chevron Savano seated opposite him, tied to a sturdy chair, and they were alone. Her bonds, though not expertly fitted, were many and varied. Her captors had used whatever hodgepodge of tethers that lay handy, and therefore her torso was bound with twine, her ankles with manacles, and her forearms and wrists were done up with twists of waxed paper. There was a leather lanyard drawn tight around her neck, securing it to the chair’s high back.

At least she still has the Timekey, he thought, seeing the instrument’s outline through Chevie’s shirt.

Riley was sure, without glancing down, that he was similarly trussed.

“Chevie,” he whispered as loudly as he dared. “Agent Savano. Stir yourself.”

Chevie opened her eyes, blinking away the ether’s aftereffects.

“Riley! You’re okay.”