Lord Darcy looked long and deeply into the eyes of My Lord Marquis, and the Marquis calmly returned that steady gaze. At last Lord Darcy said: “I see. Do you consider the evidence conclusive, then?”

“Oh, by no means,” said the Marquis, patting the air with a heavy hand. “I certainly should not care to place the case before the Court of High justice with the evidence now at hand. If I had that evidence, Master Sean would have already been charged with premeditated murder, not merely with suspicion.”

“I see,” Lord Darcy repeated, his voice icily polite. “Am I to presume that I will be expected to find that evidence?”

The Marquis de London lifted his massive shoulders perhaps a quarter of an inch and lowered them again. “It is a matter of indifference to me. However, understanding as I do your personal interest in the case, you may certainly count upon full co-operation from this office in any investigation you may care to undertake.”

“Ahh. That’s the way the wind blows, is it?” said Lord Darcy. “Very well. I accept your hospitality and your co-operation. Will you release Master Sean on his own recognizance until such time as the remainder of the evidence is in?”

My Lord Marquis frowned, and for the first time there seemed to be a touch of discomfort in his manner. “You know as well as I that a man arrested for a capital crime cannot be released on his own recognizance. Such is the law; I am powerless to abrogate the King’s Law.”

“Of course,” murmured Lord Darcy. “Of course. I trust, however, that I may speak to Master Sean?”

“Naturally. He is in the Tower, and I have given orders that he is to be made comfortable. You may see him at any time.”

Lord Darcy rose to his feet. “My thanks, my lord. In that case, I shall go about my business. May I have your leave to go?”

“You have my leave, my lord. Lord Bontriomphe will see you to the door.” The Marquis of London rose ponderously to his feet and walked out of his office without another word.

Lord Darcy said nothing to Lord Bontriomphe until both of them were standing at the front door. Then he said: “My Lord Marquis likes to play games, Bontriomphe.”

“Hm-m-m. Yes. Yes, he does.” Bontriomphe paused. “I am certain you can handle this, Darcy.”

“I think so. Don’t be surprised by anything.”

“I shan’t. Good evening, my lord.”

“Good evening. I shall see you on the morrow.”

Master Sean O Lochlainn, in his comfortable room in that ancient fortress known as the Tower of London, was no longer angry — not even at Fate. The emotion that filled him now was a sort of determined patience. He knew Lord Darcy would come, and he knew that his imprisonment was purely nominal.

Earlier in the afternoon, when he had found himself charged with suspicion of murder, he had felt some small pique when he was told that he would not be allowed to bring his symbol-decorated carpetbag to the Tower with him. Locking up a sorcerer is difficult enough in itself; to allow him to have the tools of his trade would be foolish indeed.

But the Tower Wardens had erred in thinking that a sorcerer was helpless without his tools. They had not taken into account a certain spell that Master Sean had long since cast upon that symbol-decorated carpetbag. The effect of that spell can be expressed simply: The tools of a sorcerer cannot long be separated from their Master against his will. And the way the spell worked in practice was thus:

The carpetbag had been locked in Master Sean’s room at the Royal Steward Arms, to remain there until such time as Master Sean’s ultimate disposition should be decided. That had been ordered by the Chief Master-at-Arms at the time of Master Sean’s arrest. Master Sean had delivered his key to the Chief Master-at-Arms in polite submission to the majesty of the law. But there had not been any special spell on the lock of Master Sean’s room, such as there had been on the late Master James Zwinge’s room. Therefore, when one of the hotel servants was making her cleaning rounds at one o’clock that afternoon, she had had with her a key to Master Sean’s room — a key that would work.

Quite naturally, Bridget Courville took each room as she came to it. When she came to Master Sean’s room, she went in and looked around.

“All’s neat,” she said to herself. “Bed unmade, but of course that’s the way it always is. Ah, these sorcerers are neat enough, for sure. No bottles or trash scattered about. Not drinkers, much, I think. Which it shouldn’t be for a sorcerer.”

She tidied up — made the bed, laid out clean towels, put in new soap bars, and did all the other little things that needed to be done.

She noticed the symbol-decorated carpetbag, of course. There was one like it in almost every room during this convention. But she paid no attention to it consciously.

Her subconscious, however, whispered to her that “it didn’t ought to be here.”

It can be said that Bridget Courville really didn’t think about what she was doing when she picked up the bag and set it out in the hall before she locked up the room and went on to the next one.

At one fifteen, a catering servant — a young lad in his late teens whose duty it was to see that drinks and food were brought to the guests when they were ordered — saw the bag sitting in the hall. It seemed out of place. Without bothering to think about it, he picked it up and took it downstairs. He left it on the luggage rack near the front entrance and promptly forgot about it.

Hennely Grayme, Chief Master-at-Arms for the City of London, having made all the notes he could on the scene of the crime, left the hotel at five minutes of two. He stopped near the door and saw the carpetbag on the luggage rack. He noticed the initials S. O L. on the handle. Automatically, he picked it up and took it with him. When he stopped by at the Tower, he said a few words to the Chief Warder and, without mentioning it, left the carpetbag behind.

The carpetbag remained unnoticed in the anteroom of the Chief Warder’s office until fifteen minutes of three. During that time, many people went in and out of that anteroom without noticing the bag; none of them were going in the right direction.

At two forty-five, the Warder in charge of the cell in which Master Sean was incarcerated saw the bag. On his way out, after reporting to the Chief Warder, he picked up the bag.

Had he been going off duty, had he been going to the Middle Tower instead of St. Thomas’ Tower, he would not even have noticed the symbol-decorated carpetbag. The spell was specific. But he did pick it up, and he did carry it up the spiral staircase to Master Sean’s cell.

He unlocked the door to Master Sean’s cell, then knocked politely.

“Master Sean, it is I, Warder Linsy.”

“Come in, me boy, come in,” said Master Sean jovially.

The door opened, and when Master Sean saw the carpetbag in the Warder’s hand, he suppressed a smile and said: “What can I do for you, Warder?”

“I was to come up and see what you wanted for dinner, Master,” Warder Linsy said deferentially. Absently he put the bag down inside the door.

“Ah, it’s of no matter to me, my good Warder,” said Master Sean. “Whatever the Chief Warder orders will be good enough for me.”

Warder Linsy smiled. “That’s good of you, Master.” Then he lowered his voice. “Ain’t none of us thinks you done it, Master Sean. We knows a sorcerer couldn’t of killed a man. Not that way, I mean. Not by black magic.”

“Thank you for your confidence, me boy,” Master Sean said expansively. “I assure you it’s not misplaced. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some thinking to do.”

“Of course, Master. Of course.” And Warder Linsy closed the door, locked it carefully, and went on about his business.