“And what about her?” asked Lightfoot, gesturing to Lisha in an offhand and slightly juvenile so-there gesture. The sergeant looked over Lisha’s almost childlike frame, her impassive face with its small Eastern features and long, raven black hair, and he faltered.

“I don’t know, sir,” he spluttered. “I do not think she was with the party when they entered the city, but. .”

“Exactly,” said Lightfoot, “and I will not have these good and loyal citizens harassed further.”

“May we go?” I inserted, a little too eagerly.

“Have you finished your supper?” asked Lightfoot. He looked doubtful.

“Oh yes,” I blustered. “You’re welcome to what’s left. It’s quite good, but I had rather a large lunch and. .”

“Yes, yes,” agreed the commander, hasty and anxious to be off. “Go on your way, and thank you.”

“With all due respect, sir. .” began the sergeant, now with undisguised anger.

“We’ll discuss this later, young man,” said Lightfoot, ominously.

“You’re damn right about that,” murmured the sergeant, turning his back on his superior contemptuously.

We needed no further encouragement. Within seconds I was holding the door to the street open as Renthrette and Garnet filed out. Behind us, Lightfoot growled formal charges to his sergeant. Perversely, I couldn’t help feeling a little disdainful pity for both of them. Still, this was not the time to show sympathy for the enemy. Taking up the rear, I stepped into the open doorway, smiling to myself at a job well done, some dignity saved, and so on. Then, the young sergeant, presumably figuring he had nothing to lose, walked away from his commander, dipped into The Book, and looked up the oldest trick.

“Oh, Mr. Hawthorne?” he called.

And, like the death trap/beer keg that I am, I turned. “Yes?” I began guilelessly.

At that, even Lightfoot’s face fell. Then they started running.