“If someone has to go, I’ll go,” said Mr. Fitzhugh, exhibiting admirable brotherly resolve in the face of a decidedly Medusa-like stare.

“How would you know what you were looking for?” demanded his sister.

“How would you?”

Outmaneuvered, Miss Fitzhugh said grudgingly, “Fair enough. But you will report back.”

“Yes, and take you for ices, too,” said Mr. Fitzhugh, generous in triumph.

The ices carried the day. Miss Fitzhugh dropped her arms to her sides. “All right. But if anything interesting does happen, don’t forget that it was my pudding!”

“Was that meant to be a good thing?” muttered Mr. Fitzhugh.

“Right now,” Arabella pointed out with amusement, “I doubt it’s anyone’s pudding. Except maybe the rats’. We left the pudding part lying in the gutter.”

Lizzy Reid jumped up from her chair, clearly ready to go haring out into the street. “What if there was more inside it? Secret messages!”

“There was a secret message,” said Arabella, neatly intercepting the younger girl before she could bolt for the door. This teaching job was certainly going to be no sinecure. Did they bar the school doors at night? She sincerely hoped so. “On the muslin. Why go to the bother of writing another?”

“Oh.” Working out the logic of that, Lizzy subsided. She looked more than a little disappointed, obviously having expected nothing short of codes and treasure maps, all buried within one small mix of fruit and suet. “True.”

“Still,” said Sally brightly, “it couldn’t hurt just to be sure...”

“Yes, it could,” said Mr. Fitzhugh, snagging his sister before she could get past him. “There’s no need. What nodcock would go about sticking messages inside a pudding? They would get all goopy that way.”

“What nodcock would put a message on a pudding?” Sally countered. “The French are capable of anything.”