“Shall we have a bite?” Lenox asked with barely concealed yearning.

“Best ask Mr. Crook,” said Hilary sympathetically. “We’ve much work to do.”

“Yes, yes.”

They approached the bar, a wide, immaculately clean slab of slate, with glasses hanging above it and gleaming brass fixtures at either end. Like the outside of the house, the pub’s inside seemed the province of a fastidious, clean, and honest man.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a heavy northern voice. “Here for dinner?”

“I’m Hilary, actually. I sent word of our arrival. This is Charles Lenox, your candidate.”

Crook gave them both an evaluating look. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lenox,” he said. “I promise nothing, let me say from the start.”

“I understand.”

“Still, we shall do our best, and I daresay by the end we’ll see you through, and before long you can return to London and forget all about us. Johnson, another pint of mild?”

Before Lenox had a chance to deny Crook’s prediction, the tender was already sliding a pint glass of foamy, rich brown ale down the bar. It looked lifesaving to Lenox’s eye.

“Thank you for your help,” said Lenox.

“Well-and you look solid enough.” This Crook said rather glumly. “It will be difficult.”

“Do we have time to sit for a moment and eat?”

“No,” said Crook. “Lucy!” he shouted. “Bring a couple of roasted beef sandwiches.”

The pretty girl raised her hand in brief acknowledgment.

“You two must go-with money, mind-straight to the printers. We need handbills, flyers, posters, all that sort of thing-we need ’em before the end of the day. I’ve designed it all, but run your eyes over what he has. Lucy!”