Someone to Watch Over Me

CHAPTER 16

As Grant had demanded, Covent Garden and its environs were soon swarming with foot patrols, captains, Runners, and watchmen. Horse patrols comprised of retired calvary soldiers divided the area into sections and covered them with military precision. Cannon, of course, remained at Bow Street with the command that all developments be reported to him immediately.

Grant knew that Cannon's desire for Victoria and Keyes to be found went beyond personal concern. A suspicious public was ever on the lookout for signs of corruption among the Bow Street force. If there had been wrongdoing on Keyes's part, it would be used against Cannon--against all of them--to hinder Cannon's planned reorganization and expansion of the policing system. It was likely that this concern weighed on all the Runners' minds, spurring them to search even harder.

"Morgan," Flagstad said worriedly, angling the brim of his hat against a cascade of raindrops, "for the life of me, I can't come up with a sound reason for Miss Duvall to run from Keyes like that. She must have simply lost her head, panicked...but why? We all know for certain that Keyes is a good man."

Grant shook his head, walking toward the opera house. He found it difficult to force a reply through his clenched teeth. "I don't know anything for certain," he said roughly.

"But of course you do," Flagstad persisted, hurrying to match his ground-covering strides. "Keyes has done nothing out of order--he's merely looking for Miss Duvall as we are, to bring her back to safety!"

Flagstad's testimony on behalf of his longtime friend should have touched Grant. The man's weathered face was fraught with distress over the inexplicable events of the evening. Flagstad had known Keyes for years, and would be sorely troubled over any implications that Keyes had done something wrong.

Grant knew he should have reacted with understanding, perhaps said a word or two to ease Flagstad's obvious worry. Instead, he found himself stopping to seize the other man by his coat front. "Then where the hell is he?" His temper, tightly repressed until this moment, exploded in a bonfire of frustration. "Don't tell me what kind of man Keyes is--just help me find the bastard!"

"Yes...yes..." Flagstad's hands came over his, prying them loose from his coat. He stared at Grant with bewildered dismay. "Calm yourself, Morgan. My God, I've never seen you so...Well, you've always kept a cool head, even during a riot!"

Grant released him with a grunt of muted fury. Yes, he had always been cool during riots, mobs, battles, and skirmishes of every kind. This was different. Time was running out for Victoria. She was in mortal danger, and not being able to reach her was causing something inhuman to disperse inside him and rise to the surface. He realized suddenly that he had to keep control of himself or he could quite possibly kill someone. Machinelike, he forced himself to continue to the opera house, where a captain of the foot patrol had gathered two men.

"You don't think they've run away together, do you?" Flagstad mused aloud. "I mean, the ladies do seem to like Keyes, and Miss Duvall has a definite reputation in that regard--"

"Get away from me." Grant's voice was low and deadly. "Before I slaughter you." Flagstad seemed to understand it was not an idle threat. Paling, he stopped and edged away hastily. "I think I'll get a report from Captain Brogdon on the progress of his foot patrol."

"Morgan! Morgan!" A breathless shout caused Grant to look about alertly. A constable was running neck-or-nothing alongside the opera house, coming from the streets north of the marketplace. "Mr. Morgan...they sent me to tell you..."

Grant reached him in three strides, nearly knocking the young man over. "What is it?"

"The betting shop on the alleyway off Russell...something you'll want to hear about..." Gasping frantically, the constable paused and hung his head in the struggle for more air.

"Tell me, dammit!" Grant snapped. "You can breathe later."

"Yes, sir." The constable nodded jerkily and forced himself to continue. "The list-maker and some of his customers claim"--he paused for another gulp of air--"a girl came into the shop tonight, asking for someone to help her to Bow Street. They say a Runner came in and forced her to come away with him."

"Praise God," Flagstad exclaimed, having lingered to hear the report. His face was transformed with relief. "It's Keyes and Miss Duvall, obviously. He found her! Everything is all right now."

Grant ignored the Runner's excitement and questioned the constable grimly. "How long ago did it happen?"

"It appears to be less than ten minutes, sir."

Flagstad interrupted eagerly. "I'll go directly to Bow Street and await them. No doubt Keyes will have her there momentarily."

"You do that," Grant said, and took off at a dead run toward Russell.

The betting shop was easy to locate. A cluster of constables had gathered outside the basement steps, while a squatty, imperious figure stood beneath the questionable shelter of a tattered umbrella and uttered loud complaints to all and sundry. The bookmaker wore heavy leather pouches that made him instantly identifiable.

The constables straightened and backed away a step en masse as Grant reached them. They looked at him strangely--no doubt he presented an odd appearance with his hair plastered over his skull, his face stiff and bloodless beneath the falling rain, and his lips drawn back from his teeth in a sort of frozen snarl he couldn't erase.

The bookmaker squinted at him speculatively. "Bloody big bastard, you are," he commented. "You must be Morgan. She was asking for ye, the wench that came in my place an' started the 'ole bloody rucktion."

"Tell Mr. Morgan what happened," one of the constables urged.

"The Runner came in my shop for 'er, an' she wouldn't go wiv 'im. The addlepate said 'e was going to kill 'er." "And then there was a fight," the constable prompted.

"Aye," the bookmaker said sourly. "One ow my customers tried to claim the wench, an' the Runner knocked the piss out ow my customer, 'e did." He spat in contempt at the thought of the departed runner. "Bloody Robin Redbreast, trying to ruin a man's honest business!"

Grant experienced an excruciating mingling of panic and pain that rose higher and higher until he felt hot pressure in the center of his head.

"What direction did they go in?" he heard himself ask hoarsely.

The question produced a sudden sly smile that stretched from one curling sideburn to the other. "I may know," the bookmaker said diffidently, "or I may not."

One of the constables seized him impatiently, giving him a brief shake that elicited an angry squawk. "Rough me again," the bookmaker threatened, "an' I won't tell ye where they went! 'Ow'd ye like to put the wench to bed wiv a shovel?"

"What the hell do you want?" Grant asked softly, staring at the bookmaker with a savage intensity that seemed to rattle him.

The bookmaker blinked uneasily. "I want ye stinkin' Redbreasts to keep yer arses out o' my lister from now on!"

"Done."

"But, Mr. Morgan..." the constable said, protesting the hastily struck bargain. His voice trailed away meekly as Grant's murderous gaze swerved to him for one chilling instant.

The bookmaker regarded Grant suspiciously. "'Ow do I know ye'll keep yer word?"

"You don't," Grant replied, his voice rising to a thunderous pitch that rivaled that of the storm outside. "But you know for certain that I'll kill you in the next ten seconds if you don't tell mewhere the hell they went!"

"Awright," the bookmaker said, and began to call for someone named Willie. Instantly a small, skinny lad of eleven or twelve appeared, dressed in ragged clothes that were far too big for him, and a cap that nearly engulfed his small, stubby head. "Me bookie's runner," the bookmaker said with pride. "I sent 'im to follow the bastard when 'e took the wench."

"They went to an' old building not far from here," the boy said breathlessly. "I'll show ye, Mr. Morgan, sir." He began to scamper along the street at once, looking over one shoulder to see if Grant would follow. Grant was at his heels at once. "I know 'xactly where 'tis, sir," the boy cried, and quickened his pace to a run.

The building, or rather the remains of one, stood like a ragged sentinel on the corner, its walls perforated with yawning holes and jagged slivers of glass. "There," Willie cried, stopping well short of the entrance, staring at it mistrustfully. "That's where they went. But I wouldn't go inside, sir...'Tisn't a sound stick o' wood in the 'ole place."

Grant barely heard him as he stepped across the threshold. The factory groaned and creaked around him, as if the entire structure would collapse any second. Rain trickled from the gaps in the walls and roof, its clean scent doing little to freshen the rank atmosphere. There were no sounds of voices, no signs of a struggle, and it seemed impossible that Victoria was here. For a moment Grant wondered if the boy had been mistaken in bringing him here, or if he had been directed by the bookmaker to play a trick on him. If this was the wrong place, it was a waste of precious time. However, a pattern of scuffs and arcs on the floor drew his attention, and his gaze shot to the stairs. There was freshly splintered wood on the third and fourth steps, and more higher up. Someone had just been here.

The sight was a visceral shock. All at once Grant found himself hurtling up the stairs, ignoring the wood cracking beneath his weight, scrambling upward with hands and feet. He had never known real desperation until now, had never felt it racing like hot oil through his veins until every inch of his skin seemed to burn. He had to reach Victoria before it was too late...and if it was...he knew that he could not live in a world without her.

Half running, half crawling up the fragmenting stairs, he reached the second floor. Through a red blur of rampant fury, he saw two figures directly across the factory space...Keyes, crouching over Victoria's prostrate form, fumbling at her skirts while a crack of lightning threw a harsh, brilliant glare through the broken roof. The only color in the room was Victoria's hair, rich as rubies, pooling brightly beneath her head. She was gagged. Eyes closed, motionless, she lay flattened beneath the Runner without a hint of movement.

An unholy noise came from Grant's throat, a devil cry that erupted from the bottom of his soul. No longer aware of his own actions, he sprang at Keyes, his entire being occupied with the need to attack and kill. The other man had only a split second to look up before Grant was on him. A curse exploded from Keyes as he was thrown halfway across the room. He rolled, fumbled for his brace of pistols, but just as he grasped the butt of a weapon, Grant seized his arm and slammed it against the floor with a force that broke bones. Screaming with pain, Keyes struck out with his other fist, ramming it into Grant's jaw. Grant barely felt the blow, so intent was he on murder.

"She'snothing, you bloody animal!" Keyes screamed, glaring into Grant's savage, pitiless face. "You wouldn't kill me over a whore!"

Grant didn't reply, only hammered brutally until no more words came from the Runner's mouth. Gradually Keyes stopped fighting and brought up his arms to defend his face and head. When the Runner was subdued to a groaning heap, Grant reached into his boot and extracted his knife, relishing the feel of it in his hand. He would be satisfied only with death, and nothing would stop him now. All the things he believed in, the strictures of law, fairness, justice, had disappeared like dust in the wind. Nearly demented with bloodlust, he raised the knife in the air.

But a muffled sound made him pause. Panting in harsh, irregular bursts, he looked in the direction of the sound. Victoria was on her side, watching him, her throat working silently, her eyes wide and staring above the gag in her mouth. Grant tensed until he shook from repressed force. He couldn't take his gaze from her face. Victoria's blue eyes seemed to imprison him, preventing him from moving. A thread of sanity penetrated through the first few layers of warlike rage, but he resisted fiercely.

"Turn your face away," he said in a voice that didn't seem to belong to him.

Victoria shook her head immediately, understanding that he could not bring himself to kill a man while she was watching.

"Damn you, look away," Grant growled. She did not. Their gazes held, his demonic, hers insistent, until finally she defeated him. He acceded with a low groan and slid the knife back into his boot. Delivering one last blow to Keyes, he knocked the man unconscious and searched his pockets rapidly. He found the key to the handcuffs that tethered Victoria's arms and brought it to her, dropping to his knees by her side. She quivered as the key turned in the handcuffs and the manacles dropped away from her bruised wrists.

As soon as the gag was removed from Victoria's tear-ravaged face, Grant dragged her into his lap and crushed her against his body. The feel of her, soft and small and alive, caused him to groan with tortured relief. His hands raked over her, his mouth dragging hungrily over her hair, skin, clothes, as if he would devour her whole.

"Grant," she gasped, flinching from the force of his kisses.

He gave an animal growl of pleasure and need, crushing his lips hard over hers.

He felt her arm slide around his neck, and her breath puffed against his ear as she spoke. "I thought I would die here. I thought...his face would be the last thing I saw in this lifetime."

"Myface is the last one you'll see in this lifetime," he said gruffly.

"I remembered everything...that man, Keyes...he tried to kill me before."

Grant knew he was holding her too tightly, but he couldn't seem to loosen his arms. "I'm sorry," he finally managed. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault--"

"No, no. Please don't say that." Her hands clasped the hard nape of his neck. "How did you find me? How did you know?"

"I found out about Keyes from Lord Lane. For the last half hour I've been insane, thinking I wouldn't reach you in time." He buried his face against her bodice with a groan. "Oh, God."

He felt her fingers slide gently through his wet hair, and she murmured something soft and indistinguishable.

"I'll never let you out of my sight again," he said, his voice muffled against her breast, and she let out an unsteady gasp of laughter.

"F-fine. That's just fine with me."

As the storm continued to rage and blow outside, the factory creaked and shuddered. The sounds galvanized Grant into action. Reluctantly he set Victoria out of his lap and pulled her up with him. "I have to get you out of here," he muttered.

"Yes." She cast a glance of loathing about the wretched place, her gaze lingering on Keyes's prostrate form. "What about him?"

"We'll leave him to the others," Grant said, not caring if the entire building collapsed around the bastard...as long as they were safely out of it first. He slid a supportive arm around her back. "Can you walk, Victoria?" She nodded, and to his amazement, a smile tugged at her chapped lips. "What is it?" he asked, wondering if the terror of the last few minutes had caused her to become temporarily unbalanced.

"You said my name," she said, her voice scratchy and strained, the smile remaining on her lips. "How did you--"

"I'll explain later." Unable to help himself, he bent and possessed her mouth in a hard, impassioned kiss. "Let's go."

Carefully they made their way down the broken stairs, Grant leading the way. He tested each step and landing before allowing Victoria to proceed. She was surprised by the weakness of her own legs. Although she knew she was safe, she could not stop trembling. Shivers and chills passed over her skin, and she stiffened in reaction.

"Are you hurt?" Grant asked at one point, and although his voice was calm, she heard the undertones of anguished concern.

"No," she said, clamping her teeth together to stop a spate of chattering. "He didn't...that is, you reached me before he..." She fell silent as Grant lifted her gently over a broken step. "I'm perfectly fine," she said, strengthening her voice in an effort to reassure him. However, he seemed far from convinced. She winced as she saw the hardness of his profile, knowing that he was silently berating himself for what had happened.

It seemed an eternity passed before they finally reached the ground floor and stepped outside. As soon as they reached solid ground, Grant lifted her in his arms, holding her high against his chest. Victoria pushed at his shoulder as she realized that they were in the midst of a crowd of constables and Runners and curious onlookers. "I can walk," she murmured as rumbles of praise and relief went through the assemblage.

Ignoring the words, Grant continued to hold her. One of the horse patrol captains approached, dismounting and nodding to Grant respectfully. "Sir," he said, "I'm glad to see that Miss Duvall is safely recovered." He paused and glanced at the crumbling factory. "Is Mr. Keyes still in there? That is, what should we--"

"He's alive," Grant replied, sounding none too pleased about the fact. "But he'll need assistance coming down from the second floor."

The captain frowned with dismay. "The place is a death trap, sir. I couldn't guarantee the safety of any man who might venture in there."

"Then knock the place over and dig Keyes out of the rubble," Grant said flatly. "I don't give a damn how you get him."

The captain blinked uneasily at Grant's callousness toward a former comrade. "Sir, may I offer the use of my own mount?" He signaled a member of the horse patrol, who led a large chestnut to them.

Grant lifted Victoria into the saddle, immediately swinging up behind her. He flicked a cold glance toward the dilapidated building. "When Mr. Keyes is brought to the ground floor," he said to the captain, "arrest him and have him sent to the Bow Street holding room. I have unfinished business with the bastard...and after Cannon is through with him, he's mine." "Yes, Mr. Morgan," the captain said, regarding him with a mixture of awe and trepidation. Clearly Grant was not a man he would risk displeasing.

Too exhausted to bother with modesty, Victoria sat astride the chestnut, her skirts riding to her knees. She leaned back against Grant while his steady arm came around her front. His long fingers curved around the cage of her ribs, and he pressed her against him as he signaled the horse to an immediate canter. She was jostled a bit, her body too stiff and tired to move naturally with the horse. But she welcomed the cold, pattering rain on her face, and the soreness of her limbs, all physical reminders that she was still alive.

Grant had come for her, she thought in wonder. He had stopped Keyes from killing her. It was a miracle almost too great to comprehend. She was filled with gratitude, and more than that, there was a sense of intimacy that went beyond all her previous feelings for him. She knew now that he would risk anything, do anything, for her, that he cared for her more than anyone ever had. She knew also that he would have killed Keyes, but instead had left him alive because she had willed it. The thought caused a thrill of pleasure inside her. Grant was a magnificent man, and very much his own master...but she had the power to influence him. Because he loved her.

Savoring the feeling, Victoria leaned back harder against him, not minding the cold and discomfort of the ride. The rain-pierced darkness was barely illuminated by the light of a streetlamp as they reached number 4 Bow Street. Dismounting first, Grant reached up for Victoria and lowered her carefully to the ground. He kept his hands at her waist, steadying her. She smiled up at him, sensing the worry lurking behind his expressionless face.

"I'm all right," she said.

His jaw hardened. "I keep thinking of you lying on that factory floor. And Keyes over you--"

"But you stopped him." She reached up and caressed his cheek, his stubbled skin startlingly warm to her chilled fingers. A tremor of fierce emotion went through him, and she felt the vibration against her palm.

"What if I had been too late?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes so dark they appeared black instead of green.

Victoria stared at him compassionately, realizing that he needed comfort as much as she did, perhaps even more. Since the death of his brother, Grant had never faced the possibility of losing someone he cared about. He had not allowed himself to truly love someone, because he had not wanted to risk feeling such pain again.

"It wouldn't have been your fault," she said carefully. "Some things are beyond your control."

But that wasn't what he wanted to hear, she saw with a sudden flash of amusement. He wasn't the kind of man who would admit that anything was beyond his control.

"That's damned cold comfort," he muttered, one dark brow lifting in a sardonic arch. "Can't you do better than that?"

She managed a smile as she saw that he was gradually returning to his old self. "Well, you weren't late," she said. "You arrived in time to save me. Why worry about what might have happened?"

"Because I..." Grant stopped and scowled. "Because it's not every day that a man discovers that one small, fragile, accident-prone woman is the center of his very existence." "Accident-prone?" she repeated with a touch of feigned indignation, while her heart gave a joyful lurch at the rest of his words.

Sir Ross's errand boy, Ernest, emerged from the building to take the horse and lead him to the stable in back. To Victoria's surprise, Grant did not take her to the office entrance in the tiny southfacing yard, but directly into the house. The main building was connected to offices in back, which in turn led to the court where inquiries were conducted and cases were heard.

"Who are all these people?" Victoria asked, instinctively pressing closer to Grant as she stared at the multitude crammed into every conceivable corner of the building.

"Informants, criminals, potential jurors, lawyers...Take your pick."

"Is it always this busy?"

"This is nothing. I've seen the place when the walls are straining at the seams." Looking over the crowd, Grant nodded to a plump silver-haired housekeeper who was attempting to direct the flow of human traffic to the appropriate rooms. Catching his gaze, she hurried over to him. She stopped short, her mouth forming a round O of dismay. "Dear, me," she murmured, her gaze traveling from his wet, filthy, disheveled form to Victoria's. "The two of you are a sight, Mr. Morgan."

Grant's mouth curved in a faint smile, but it was clear he was in no mood for conversation. "I need to see Cannon now," he said curtly. "We only have a few minutes. Miss Duvall...that is, Miss Devane...has been through an ordeal and requires rest."

"Yes, of course." The housekeeper regarded Victoria with kindly concern. "Come this way at once, please." She urged them through the bustling crowd and brought them to Sir Ross's office, a small room with rectangular windows facing the street. The office was furnished with oak pieces, ponderous bookshelves, and a library terrestrial globe.

Sir Ross, who was talking with two men who appeared to be clerks or assistants of some kind, stopped in midsentence as Grant brought Victoria into the room. "Morgan," he said, his gray eyes flashing as he stared at the two of them. "Where is Keyes?"

"He'll be brought here soon," Grant said flatly.

Somehow, Cannon seemed to understand exactly what had happened just by reading Grant's face. He closed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped a bit. He rubbed his temples with a thumb and forefinger, as if a tremendous headache had suddenly descended. "Mrs. Dobson," he said to the housekeeper, "bring hot drinks and blankets."

"Yes, sir." She disappeared at once.

Efficiently Cannon ushered the other two men out of the room and closed the door firmly. The noise and commotion outside the office was muted but still audible. Turning to Grant and Victoria, Cannon gestured for them to have a seat.

Victoria shivered slightly, grateful for the protective arm Grant slid behind her back as she huddled in the oak chair. Her clothes were wet and clammy, and she was uncomfortably aware of the filth that clung to her premise and hair. She had never wanted a bath as badly as she did right now. She longed to be clean and dry and to find a warm bed to sleep in.

"This won't take long," Grant murmured, seeing her weariness.

Cannon heard the quiet comment. "No indeed," he said, drawing up a chair in front of Victoria's. He startled her by taking her hand in his large, cool one and staring at her intently. Her wide gaze flew to his serious gray eyes. "Miss..." he began, and paused.

"Devane," she supplied with a tremulous smile.

"Devane," he repeated softly. "You must feel like you've gone to sea in a sieve."

Despite her exhaustion, Victoria laughed suddenly at the description. "Something like that."

"That fact that this ordeal was caused by one of my Runners grieves me more than I can say. I can offer no sufficient redress for what you've suffered...but I give you my word that if I can ever be of service to you, I will use every means at my disposal. You have only to ask."

"Thank you," Victoria replied softly, finding it a bit unnerving to have one of London's most powerful men offer her an apology.

Seeming satisfied, Cannon released her hand and waited until Mrs. Dobson had brought the blankets. When Victoria was snugly wrapped in a layer of wool and there was a steaming mug of tea clasped in her icy fingers, the magistrate's implacable gaze returned to her. "Miss Devane...please tell me as best you can what happened this evening."

Occasionally fumbling for words, Victoria described the events that had passed since Grant had left her earlier in the day. Now and then Grant interceded, filling in the necessary explanations. The only interruption came when the office door reverberated from a curious scraping motion. Victoria paused and looked around questioningly at the odd noise.

Rolling his eyes, Cannon rose and opened the door. Immediately a large striped cat with no tail sauntered inside the office and surveyed the visitors with a speculative gaze. "Chopper," Cannon said in a warning tone that would have caused any other creature to slink into the nearest corner.

Instead, Chopper flicked him a rebellious glance and jumped straight into Victoria's lap. Automatically Victoria handed her half-filled mug to Grant as the cat settled into a massive furry heap over her thighs.

Muttering an apology, Cannon began to remove the creature, but Victoria shook her head with a smile. "It's all right," she said. "I like animals."

Cannon's eyes glimmered with an answering smile. "Well, now you've met the real head of Bow Street," he remarked, indicating the smug feline, and returned to his chair.

With the cat purring quietly in her lap, Victoria finished the description of all that had happened, and blinked tiredly. The office was warm, and the realization that she was finally safe had made her feel peaceful for the first time in weeks. She felt Grant's hand settle on the back of her neck, beneath her wet, dirty hair, and his gentle touch soothed her.

A long reflective silence followed as Cannon stared absently at the landscape on his wall. The painting depicted a small, bright stream rushing over crags and rocks, against a backdrop of forest-covered hills. Victoria suspected that at times like this, the magistrate must wish to be in a place as serene as the one in the landscape.

"Keyes," the magistrate said softly, as if he were sorting through memories in his mind. Small, cold lights burned in his gray eyes, conveying fury and a hint of grief. It was a personal tragedy for Cannon, as well as a professional one.

"I'm sorry for what has happened," Victoria said sincerely, her concerned gaze turning to Grant. "Will this make things more difficult for you and the other Runners?"

Grant's green eyes were caressing as he regarded her with a slight smile. "No need to worry, sweet pea. Bow Street has weathered worse than this before." Deftly he pushed the cat from her lap, ignoring Chopper's protesting yowl, and urged her to stand. "It's time for Miss Devane to go home," he said to Cannon. "We'll deal with the official business tomorrow."

"My carriage will convey you to King Street." Cannon opened the door, summoned his errand boy, and murmured instructions to him. At the same time the housekeeper appeared, asking if there was something else she could bring for Victoria.

"We're finished for now," Cannon said. "Thank you, Miss Devane. I hope you will suffer no lasting effects from this disastrous day."

"I'll be quite well after a good rest," she assured him.

Cannon's comment caused Grant to frown in worry. "I should send for Linley," he said. "He should have a look at you, after what you've been through."

"Again?" Victoria shook her head instantly. "I certainly don't need to see a doctor twice in one day.You can go see Dr. Linley if you're so desirous of his company. I want to go home."

"Home it is," he said softly, guiding her from the office.

Mrs. Dobson stepped into the hallway to observe the pair's departure. When she glanced back at Ross, the housekeeper wore a pleased, slightly bemused expression. "Well," she remarked, "it seems our Mr. Morgan has finally fallen in love."

"And fallen hard," Ross added wryly. "Poor bastard."

An affectionate smile brightened Mrs. Dobson's plump face. "Someday, sir, a little slip of a thing may yet reduce you to the state our poor Mr. Morgan is in."

"I'll slit my own throat first," he replied calmly. "In the meanwhile, I want a jug of coffee."

The housekeeper looked outraged at the suggestion. "At this hour? I won't hear of it. What you need is rest, and plenty of it, not some brew that will shred your nerves to ribbons..."

Sighing, Cannon returned to his desk and endured the lecture that ensued.