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keys that didn’t fit anything, and all of the items that most people throw out. His collections, which he showed me with more pride than I thought justified, did not really thrill me as much as he felt they should. But he did have newspapers, all right. Ten years’ worth of all of the London papers, stacked neatly in piles by date.
    â€œAnd not one of ’em cost me a ha’penny,” he said, poking out his stomach for emphasis. “London’s full of fools and spendthrifts, lad. Men and women what’ll pay sixpence for a paper and throw it away after a single reading. I get all me papers every day, and not one of ’em that costs me a ha’penny.”
    â€œAnd you read all the papers yourself?”
    â€œOh, I’ll give a glance at one now and then. Mondays I’ll generally have a look at Sunday’s News of the World. But it’s not the reading of ’em, it’s the having that does for me.”
    I told him the issues we wanted. This August was easy, he said, but if it was two or three Augusts ago we wanted it wouldn’t take ten minutes to dig ’em out for us. He found the issues, and Nigel and I divided them up and went through the long columns of personal ads. There were endless appeals for donations to obscure charities, odd coded notices, occasional sex solicitations by self-styled models, palmists, strict governesses, et al. And, ultimately, there was this:
    Y OUNG W OMEN —an opportunity for adventure and foreign travel with generous remuneration. Applicants must be unattached, security minded. Apply in person, Carradine, No. 67, Great Portland Street. Discretion expected and assured.
    â€œIt needn’t be that,” Nigel pointed out. “Might be any of these we checked, you know. ‘Companion wanted for journey to Continent,’ anything of that sort.”
    â€œStill…”
    â€œYes, it does look promising. Damn, I’ve got to get to the theater. If you’d like, I’ll go round to Great Portland Street with you in the morning.”
    â€œI’ll go now.”
    â€œI shouldn’t think they’d be open, actually.”
    â€œI don’t even think they exist,” I said. “That’s what I want to find out.”
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    The building on Great Portland Street housed a dealer in coins and medals on the ground floor, with the other four floors broken up into a variety of small offices, allof which were closed for the day. The name Carradine did not appear either on the directory posted on the first floor or on any of the office doors. I waited in the coin and medal shop while a small boy and his father selected several shillings’ worth of small foreign coins. The transaction took an inordinate amount of time, and when it was finally completed the clerk seemed relieved that I didn’t want to buy anything. “Carradine,” he said. “Carradine, Carradine. Would that be a Mr. Carradine, do you suppose, or the name of the establishment?” I told him his guess was as good as mine, if not better. “Carradine,” he said again. “August, you say. First fortnight of August. Would you excuse me for a moment, sir? I’ll ask our Mr. Talbot.”
    He disappeared into the back, then reappeared a few moments later. “If you’ll step into the back room, sir, our Mr. Talbot will see you.”
    Our Mr. Talbot was a red-faced man with uncommonly large ears. He sat at a rolltop desk dipping coins into a glass of clear liquid and wiping them on a soft rag. The solution, whatever it was, managed to turn the coins bright and silvery while staining the tips of our Mr. Talbot’s fingers dark brown.
    â€œCarradine,” he said. “Never met the gentleman, but I do recall the name. Late summer, I think. Don’t believe he was here long. Have you tried the owner?”
    I hadn’t. He gave me a name and address and telephone number, and I thanked him. He said,