"He does, my old friend," Summerville said. "The thing is, I've mislaid my walking stick."

I leaned on my own walking stick, a gift from my lady. He looked so anxious that I grew curious in spite of myself. "One of great importance to you?" Perhaps Miss Wright had given it to him.

"No, no. The bloody thing isn't worth much on its own. It does have a bit of gold on the head, but the main thing is, my name is engraved on it." He darted a glance at his companions, a very proper miss and her very proper parents, absorbed in studying the jewelry. "Look here, Lacey, I must find that walking stick. I might have left it in a dashed awkward place-a place I wouldn't want it coming to certain ears I'd visited, if you take my meaning."

I was beginning to understand. "Summerville, the reveler," I said. "You have not changed in that respect?"

"Those days are behind me, I assure you, except for a bit of an outing last night."

"Sowing the last of your wild oats?" I suggested.

He patted my shoulder, happy I'd caught on. "Exactly. I'd be ever so grateful if you could lay your hands on it for me. Today, I mean."

My irritation returned. "Today?"

"I know it much to ask, but the Wrights have my time well spoken for. I will not have a moment to scour London for it myself, and sooner or later one of them will ask what became of it. My peccadilloes are the past, but I had to go and lose that blasted stick. I would hate someone to try to touch me for money because of it. You understand?"

He looked so miserable that I stemmed my annoyance. Summerville's concern about blackmail was not farfetched. I put Mr. Wright as a well-off gentleman of the middle class, possibly a City man who had banks doing what he told them to do. Miss Wright was a catch, especially for a gentleman like Summerville, who had family connections but not much money.