Behind the bookstore was a square ditch to let the river run off in case of a swelling tide. Over that was a bridge into a yard with what seemed to be a storage shed. The fisherman pushed aside some movable rocks, opened the ramshackle door and waved his remaining hand for them to enter. Amber tugged at her collar. She could barely see a tunnel, dank and close. They tiptoed along for about a block and came into a cave-like room with a fire going and several men sitting around with their pipes asmoke.

--Here they are, tell 'em the tale.

--Hee Haw, you must be Amber, Armonium I already know . You sit down ladies, tea water's boilin'. Here comes each a cup, and now the story. Not two hours ago, one of our agents hiding behind a lamppost in the park, spied a group of two young women and three soldiers whispering like paranoids. He moseyed over casual-like and asked did anyone have a match perchance. Well, you should have heard all the fancy excuses they came up with about why and where and how come and no one even asked them their business, did they?. So upset they were that they grabbed a hostage, one little wandering chewer who was munching neither on a candy bar nor a popsicle, but only a bit of potato, that harmless she was. As it happens, the girl is the very daughter of Martha Pandybat, the very secretary and keeper of the keys of our very little museum. We then received a letter that said we could get Martha's girl back if we would send a messenger with a sackful of money to 1132 Seashell St. right there at the foot of the castle just at 7 P.M.