N. K. SARAVANAN The big gray eyebrows squeeze together over his twinkling black eyes, and Mr. Saravanan says, “Lilo? What a perfectly suitable name.” He goes to pat me on the shoulder, but stops cos of all the mud. “I am very sorry about the gun, but you cannot trust anyone in this terrible city.” He pats Cat on the head instead. “And Enid, the lampmaker, would show an army of knife-wielding murderers to my ladder without even blinking.” It was the letter calmed down Mr. Saravanan. I was in a panic giving it to him, cos it was covered in mud and all. He was a bit suspicious about it first off. But when he started reading it, he was all sighs and comments like “Eustace Denton, what a good man he was” and “So sad to die so young.” He even wiped his eyes and sniffed about it. Then he put the letter inside his purple, velvety coat and cheered right up. “Well now, you will follow me,” he says, and we head into the creaky back of the house. We go through three rooms, each one just like the street outside, piled high with antiques.
