“Miss Kelling?” Cobb said, derailing this particular train of thought.
* * *
—
They were shown to a table and a waiter duly approached. Gwendolen feared that Cobb might be teetotal—he certainly had an abstinent look about him. “We should order a drink,” she murmured. “An alcoholic one. Otherwise we’ll look out of place.” Gwendolen thought that she might be better at this undercover malarkey than Cobb. But then, for her it was something of a diversion, for him it was a job. A test too, perhaps. Set by Frobisher.
“Yes, we should,” he said, to her relief. Gwendolen was no drinker but she felt an evening with William Cobb might require a certain amount of leavening.
A cocktail menu was presented to them. It was as vast as the Bible and neither of them had the faintest idea about any of the items on it. We are innocents abroad, Gwendolen thought. She started reading the menu out loud to Cobb. It was impossible to tell what the drinks contained from their names alone. The christening of cocktails must be a full-time job for someone.
“What do you think a Highwayman is?” she asked Cobb. “Or, for that matter, a Sunbeam, a Mikado, a King of Britannia—what on earth might be in that, do you suppose?”
“Orange, cognac, Italian vermouth and quinine,” the hovering waiter reeled off without hesitation.
“Blimey. What about it, William—a Bloodhound? A Honeymoon? A Grand Desire?”
He blushed. He was easy to tease. “Do stop,” he muttered, his patience wearing thin. “What do you recommend?” he asked the waiter. “Or we’ll be here all night.”
Buster Browns were eventually proposed by the waiter, who disappeared to fetch them. Cobb lit a cigarette and then remembered Gwendolen. “Do you?”
“No, thank you.”
Once baptized by the first Buster Brown, Cobb surprised Gwendolen by swiftly ordering another. Dutch courage, perhaps. Gwendolen had no idea what was in their drinks but they tasted as harmless as elderflower cordial. Primed by the cocktails, Cobb agreed to partner her in a two-step. Gwendolen’s silver sandals were itching to join others on the dance floor. She had not danced since the war, and although she was rusty from lack of practice and Cobb seemed to have learnt to dance from a manual, after a few circulations of the room they started to fall into the swing of it. Cobb, once he had got over his reluctance to make physical contact with her （or any woman, she suspected）， began to seem to enjoy himself a little.
The club was packed. Rather guiltily （she had all but forgotten）， Gwendolen remembered the purpose of her visit here—to find the lost lambs. There was, unsurprisingly, no Freda or Florence, nor anything other than pretty, smiling girls doing what they were hired to do, which was dancing with anyone who paid the price. They were certainly, if not maids, then definitely merry.
* * *
—
The Buster Browns, it seemed, had not been as innocent as they had tasted, and feeling rather dizzy Gwendolen was about to suggest to Cobb that they return to their table when there was a tremendous hubbub, followed quickly by the unmistakeable sound of a gun being fired. The shot had the remarkable effect of shocking the boisterous room into complete silence.
Gwendolen could see several more men producing guns and, galvanized by this sight, she grasped a paralyzed Cobb by the arm, pulled him to the side of the room and pushed him into a crouch. If shots were being fired, you did not want to go out of your way to make yourself a target. A volley of shots did indeed follow hard on the heels of the solitary gun. It was like suddenly finding yourself in the middle of a Zane Grey novel, Gwendolen thought. （Mr. Pollock had lost the popular argument on him, too.） Or a war, of course.
The conflict was over so quickly that Gwendolen almost wondered if the cocktails had caused her to hallucinate. The band had not even stopped playing, no one seemed to have been injured, and within seconds people had emerged from their foxholes and started dancing again. Gwendolen turned around to look for Cobb. This might be a good time to leave. She had not found her stray lambs, but at least she would have a tale to tell Frobisher. She did not want to disappoint him by turning up empty-handed in Bow Street on Monday morning. To her surprise, she found that Cobb seemed to have come to the same conclusion—she had been abandoned! Before Gwendolen had time to digest this astonishing fact, she heard a howl of pain. It seemed that someone had been wounded after all. She supposed she should try to help. After all, if there was one thing she knew about, it was gunshot wounds.
* * *
—