The Gentleman and the Lamplighter by Summer Devon Page B

for a time until a stout lady of about forty with salt-and-pepper hair approached him. She had pretty brown eyes but otherwise was rather plain, or perhaps she didn’t make any attempt to make herself attractive. “Are you looking for any particular title?” she asked.
    “I am looking for travel guides.”
    She pursed her lips. “We have a few. Come along and I’ll show you.”
    As he followed her, he found the courage to say, “I wonder if Mr. Banks is available.”
    She glanced over her shoulder at him. Her face, lit with a sudden smile, became close to beautiful. “What? Oh, goodness! You are here about the play? Because Mr. Abrams, my husband, is the man you actually want. Banks and Abrams sounded better, my husband thought, so his name went first, but Mr. Banks isn’t really the man in charge.”
    He picked out the words that seemed important. “The play?”
    “Oh dear, I can tell by your confusion that you’re not the man we’re waiting for. I thought you might be because we’ve been hoping he’d stop by today. He said he would if he had time.” She stopped in front of a shelf and waved a hand. “Here you go, sir. We have a few guides to foreign lands, but if you need one for London or other English cities, they’re on another shelf.”
    “You’re expecting someone to come here to talk about a play? And Mr. Banks helped to write it?”
    “Yes, we’re expecting a theater manager, but really, I shouldn’t be talking about such things, not before the contract is signed.”
    He said, “No, of course not.” He reached for a guide to Egypt. “Er, have Mr. Banks and Mr. Abrams written more than one play?” Of course Banks hadn’t been talking about plays that he performed only in his mind. Giles felt like a fool.
    “Heavens, yes.” Her mouth twisted and her large eyes narrowed. He couldn’t help smiling.
    She said, as if talking to herself, “It wouldn’t hurt to talk about the others. That’s not inviting bad luck.”
    “No,” he agreed.
    “And you say you’re a friend of Mr. Banks?” She finally appeared to focus on him—and then her eyes widened for a second, then narrowed even more. Her face was as mobile as a music hall actor’s. “He has an interesting variety of friends, does our Mr. Banks, but I cannot recall him describing such an obvious—” She hesitated, and he wondered what she would say. “Such an obviously well-to-do sort of a person. Although you do resemble his ghost.”
    “Oh? Does he know real ghosts?”
    She shook her head and a pencil slid from her hair onto the floor. He picked it up and handed it to her.
    Pushing the pencil back into the bun at the back of her head, she said, “No, the ghost is one of the memorable people he meets. Five miles every night and five miles every morning, he meets a great many interesting sorts. He’s used quite a few in the plays.”
    “What did he say about the ghost?”
    She frowned, her dark brows nearly meeting in the middle. “I suppose I really shouldn’t speak of their work. Mr. Abrams dislikes it especially. Mr. Banks and Mr. Abrams have gone to take their midday meal—the ordinary over at the pub.” She pulled a man’s watch from a pocket and flipped it open. “If you have questions, they should be back in a few minutes.” She tucked away the watch with an air of finality and then ran a finger over a large red volume on the shelf. “This is a book about central Africa. Quite an interesting one, too. You might wish to take a look?”
    He took the hint to drop the subject of plays and pulled the book from the shelf. “Yes.” He flipped it open and pretended to examine the engravings. “This will do. I will take it and the one about Egypt.”
    He was suddenly sure he didn’t want to be in the shop when Banks returned. His heart seemed to thump too hard and fast and he had trouble pulling in a breath deep enough to bring him oxygen—that had to be the reason his head swam.
    He carried the books to the small