’ ‘You see? Not to be trusted,’ Hilary uttered disgustedly. The Jacobite. I call upon you to assist me in the apprehension of this person. The rogue took everything we had. And not a worthy tome in sight. To surrender himself to the law, to face trial and imprisonment, was out of the question. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. ‘You mean there isn’t any evidence of a break-in.
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