Irene drew back a chintz curtain and frowned at the moonlight bathing our front garden. “I loathe full moons.”She was clad again in utter black, on this occasion a well-cut gentleman’s suit. Her dark hair’s red-gold luster was snuffed by a black beret. Godfrey, also black-garbed from toe to collar, joined her at the window.“You are no true romantic, Irene.” He peered up at the moon’s smug, waxen face. “Be grateful for its presence. We shall at least be in no danger of falling into the mere.”“Yes, but we are more likely to be taken for what we are—housebreakers!”This was my signal for a small lecture. “The two of you look like Lucifer after a dip in the carp pond—black and sleek and too furtive for words.”The animal itself lay at my feet, toying kittenishly with a ball of cotton thread I was crocheting into a household object of use and beauty.“We must see these fabled letters.” Irene hefted a small black leather bag much like a physician’s. It rattled as if concealing the family silver, although I suppose that what clattered was an array of housebreaking tools.“We shall not even take the letters,”
