“Well… bug-” Foul Ole Ron caught the Patrician’s eye and got a grip on himself. Even in his own highly individualized sanity he could tell when not to push his threadbare luck. His Smell wandered around the room, reading documents and examining the pictures.

“They say,” he said, “that he drives all the women mad.” He leaned forward. The Patrician leaned back. “They say after his moved his hips like that… Mrs. Whitlow threw her… wossnames … onto the stage.”

The Patrician raised an eyebrow. “‘Wossnames’?”

“You know,” Foul Ole Ron moved his hands vaguely in the air.

“A pair of pillow cases? Two sacks of flour? Some very baggy trou- oh. I see. My word. Were there any casualties?”

“Dunno, yerronner. But there’s something I do know.”

“Yes?”

“Uh… Cumbling Michael says yerronner sometimes pays for information?”

“Yes, I know, I can’t imagine how these rumors get about,” said the Patrician, getting up and opening a window. “I shall have to have something done about it.”

Once again, Foul Ole Ron reminded himself that, while he was probably insane, he definitely wasn’t as mad as all that.