A Conspiracy of Paper by David Liss Page B

cut an imposing figure. Sir Owen shrank from me. He took a step back, and lowered his eyes. He did not, apparently, wish to give me the lie at all. “I am sorry, Mr. Weaver. It is only that there is something yet missing. Something to me more valuable than all the information and banknotes in this book.” He sat back down. “Perhaps it is my own doing. I should have made certain you knew to look for it.” He lowered his face into his cupped hands.
    “What is this thing that you have lost?” I asked in a gentler tone. Sir Owen had softened—almost broken—and I considered it prudent I soften as well.
    He looked up, despondence inscribed upon his once-jovial features. “It is a bundle of papers, sir.” He cleared his throat and attempted to regain his calm. “Papers of a personal nature.”
    I began to understand the situation more clearly. “Is there anything else missing, Sir Owen?”
    “Nothing of importance.” He shook his head slowly. “Nothing I can see.”
    “And would someone inspecting your book know these papers were valuable to you?”
    “Someone would who knew enough of me. And such a man would know how much I would value their return.” He thought for a moment. “But there are several pages, and this person would have to read everything. And, as I say, this person would have to know much of my private life.”
    “Yet,” I mused aloud, “surely anyone literate enough to know the value of a packet of private letters would know the value of the banknotes yet in your book. Are any of your banknotes missing?”
    “I think not. No.”
    “It seems to me unlikely that the papers have been intentionally taken,” I reasoned. “For who would steal the papers and then neglect these notes? Is it possible that these papers might have fallen out? That they might not have been clasped securely within the book?”
    Sir Owen reflected upon this observation for a moment. His face was suddenly creased with lines, and his eyes were bloodshot. “It is possible ,” he said. “I cannot say for certain how rough things became with the whore, you know. And once my goods were in her possession, she may not have known to be careful. They might have fallen out, certainly.”
    “But you think it unlikely?”
    “Mr. Weaver, I must have these papers returned.” Sir Owen crossed his legs and then crossed them back the other way. “I shall give you an additional fifty pounds to retrieve them. One hundred pounds if you can do so within twenty-four hours.”
    I had ample use for the money, but I saw now a greater opportunity for service. If I could remedy Sir Owen’s matter, I knew, he would not be illiberal in his praise of me thereafter. “You offered me before fifty pounds for the return of your pocketbook and its contents. I have not yet fulfilled the contract. I shall find these papers, sir, and ask nothing more of you.”
    Sir Owen brightened a little. “Did you, by any chance, inspect the area around which the book had been stashed, or among my other belongings?”
    “Sir, there was no time. I am afraid my encounter with the woman went somewhat shakily.” I proceeded to inform Sir Owen of the previous evening’s adventure. This confession was unguarded, but I felt the need to secure the baronet’s trust. And I knew that he understood his implication in this matter quite clearly, for I could not be brought forward for punishment without exposing Sir Owen’s secret. He listened to my story with grave concentration. “Gad,” he breathed. “This is a serious dilemma. You know that this whore must never speak. She must not be permitted to drag you into a trial, and you must not drag my name into it. You understand that such a thing cannot happen.” His voice rose with increasing levels of panic. “I cannot allow that such a thing could ever happen.”
    “Of course,” I said, as if soothing a child. “You have made it clear that your privacy is of the utmost importance, and I shall treat it as such. In