“What’s that?”

“I have a dog-grooming salon.”

“That sounds super. What’s your favorite breed of dog?”

“I suppose Yorkies.”

“Why? Appearance or disposition?”

“Size,” she said. “There’s less to wash.”

“I never thought of that.” She turned to me. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you do? Are you a canine stylist too?”

I shook my head. “I’m a burglar.”

That got her giggling. “A burglar,” she said. “What kind of a burglar? A cat burglar?”

“That’s the best kind.”

“Well, there’s a cat here,” she said, “just waiting for somebody to burgle him. But I’m afraid his tail has already been stolen.”

“It’s our cat,” I said.

“Is it really? Is he a Manx?” I nodded. “I’ve never actually seen a Manx before,” she said. “Did you get him on the Isle of Man?”

“Close. The Isle of Manhattan.”

“And they let you bring him here? I didn’t know you were allowed to bring pets.”

“He’s not a pet,” Carolyn said. “He’s an employee.”

“At Carolyn’s salon,” I said quickly. “Burglars don’t have employees, human or feline. But there are a lot of supplies at the salon, and the mice were getting into all sorts of things. It’s Raffles’s job to put a stop to that.”

If Raffles was a working cat, she demanded, then why wasn’t he on the job now, guarding the stock from rodent damage? I told her I’d wondered about that myself.

“He needs company,” Carolyn said. “We won’t get back until late Sunday, or possibly not until Monday. How would you like it if your parents left you home alone that long?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Well, you’re not a cat,” Carolyn said. Millicent agreed that she wasn’t, and I asked her what she did for a living.

This elicited another burst of giggles. “I don’t do anything,” she said. “I’m a little girl.”

“Are you English?”

“No, I’m American. We live in Boston.”

“You sound English.”

“Do I?” She beamed. “It’s an affection.”

“You mean an affectation.”

“Yes, of course that’s what I meant. But I have an affection for England, too. I must have been English in a past life. Do you know who I think I was?”

“Not a scullery maid, I’ll bet.”

“Lady Jane Grey,” she said. “Or possibly Anne Boleyn. They were both queens, you know.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “And they were both put to death,” she said.

“Well, I certainly don’t think-”

“Oh, that was then and this is now,” she said airily. “But I love to watch Masterpiece Theatre, and all the other English programs on PBS, and I get yelled at in school all the time for spelling words like ‘colour’ and ‘harbour’ with a U, and ‘programme’ with two M’s and an E. I think it looks ever so much nicer that way, don’t you?”

“I don’t think there’s any question about it,” Carolyn said.

“And I love coming here,” Millicent went on. “This is our third time at Cuttleford House. I have my own room this time. I’m in Uncle Roger’s Room. That’s right near you, because you’re in Aunt Augusta’s.”

“How did you happen to know that?”

“Oh, I know everything,” she said. “People tell me things. I know you’re a burglar, Bernie, and I bet nobody else here knows that.”

“Maybe it could be our little secret,” Carolyn suggested.

She mimed locking her lips with a key. “My lips are sealed,” she said, “and only Bernie can pick the lock. And if I’m locked out of Uncle Roger’s Room, you can let me in. Except I shan’t be.” She lifted a string encircling her neck to show a key dangling from it. “I’ve never stayed in Aunt Augusta’s Room. The first time I came here all three of us were in the Vicar’s Upstairs Parlour. It’s the largest sleeping room of all, the one with three beds. How many beds do you have?”

“One at the most,” Carolyn said.

“The last time we came the Vicar’s was taken, and they were going to put us in Poor Miss McTavish’s, but it was too small. My father said he drew the line at that, and my mother said perhaps it was time I had my own room. Do you know what I said?”

“You probably said that was jolly good.”

“How did you know? Anyway, Nigel put Mummy and Daddy in Lucinda’s Room, and I had Poor Miss McTavish’s all to myself.”

“Why do they call it that?” Carolyn wanted to know. “Is it the room that’s poor, or Miss McTavish?”

“I think it must be Miss McTavish,” the child said, “because it’s a perfectly lovely room. The walls are bright yellow and it’s very cheery. Miss McTavish must be the governess, don’t you think? Someone must have broken her heart.”

“The butler,” Carolyn suggested.

“He’s a bounder,” Millicent agreed. “Or a cad. Is there a difference between a bounder and a cad?” Neither of us knew. “Well, whichever he is,” she said, “he’s certainly a bad hat. And Poor Miss McTavish-”

She broke off when a woman darted into the room, looking a little harried. “There you are,” she said. “Millicent, I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s time you were off to bed.”

“I’m not tired, Mummy.”

“You’re never tired,” Mrs. Savage said, aggrieved. One sensed she was often tired herself, and that it was largely Millicent’s fault. She sighed, and became aware of our existence. “I hope she hasn’t been driving the two of you nuts,” she said. “She’s really a pretty good little kid, except when she decides she’s Mary, Queen of Scots.”

“Oh, Mummy. Not Mary, Queen of Scots.” She rolled her eyes. “Mummy, this is Bernie and Carolyn. They have Aunt Augusta’s Room.”

“That’s a nice room, isn’t it? It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Leona Savage. My husband Greg’s here somewhere, but don’t ask me where.”

We said we were pleased to meet her. “They’re very nice,” Millicent announced. “Carolyn’s a canine stylist. And you’ll never guess what Bernie does.”

“I’ll never guess what a canine stylist is, either, I’m afraid.”

“She grooms dogs, Mummy. Especially Yorkies, because there’s less to wash. And Bernie’s a burglar.”

“That was going to be our little secret,” I reminded her.

“Oh, Mummy wouldn’t tell anyone. Would you, Mummy?”

Our next stop was the library. I’d already seen a picture of it in the brochure, but you know what they say about the Grand Canyon. Nothing prepares you for it.

It was an enormous room, with built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves running the length of it and a wall of windows opposite. There was a fireplace at one end, with various savage-looking tribal weapons mounted above it and a bookcase on either side. At the room’s other end, a carved Jacobean table held magazines and newspapers; above it, a Mercator-projection map was mounted on the wall. It showed all of Britain ’s crown colonies and dominions and protectorates in pink, and it dated from a time when the sun never set thereon.

A lectern displayed an opened copy of the Oxford Universal Dictionary, while another showed a National Geographic atlas some fifty years more recent than the map. A two-tiered bookcase on casters held an eleventh edition of the Britannica. Other tables and chairs and sofas were strategically positioned around the room, with good reading light wherever you might happen to sit. A vast oriental covered most of the wide-board pine floor, with area rugs and runners helping out where needed.

I just stood there and stared. I have been in a lot of magnificent rooms, including more than a few fine private libraries. Sometimes I have been present by invitation, and other times I have turned up on my own, without the owner’s permission and much to his chagrin. I have found it difficult to leave some of those rooms, wanting to extend my stay as long as I possibly could, but this was different.

I wanted to steal the whole room. I wanted to wrap it up in a magic carpet-perhaps the very one beneath my feet; it looked entirely capable of having magical properties-and whisk it back to New York, where I could install it with a snap of my fingers on the top floor, say, of an Art Deco apartment building on Central Park South. Drop-dead views of the park through that wall of windows, and a gentle north light that wouldn’t fade the carpet or the spines of the books…