Free The Ruby in the Smoke by Philip Pullman Page A

difficult to make, but she was determined to get through it. She looked down.
    "D'you mean it.^" said the girl.
    "Honestly. I know I'm good with figures, or else I shouldn't have said anything."
    "Then we'd be delighted," said Frederick Garland. "You see?" he said to his sister. "I told you there was nothing to worry about. Miss Lx)ckhart, you'll join us for lunch?"
    Lunch, in their bohemian household, consisted of a jug of ale, the remains of a large joint of roast beef, a fruitcake, and a bag of apples, which Rosa said she had been given the night before by one of her admirers, a porter in Cov-ent Garden market. They ate it, with the help of one large pocketknife and their fingers (and empty chemical jars for the beer) at the crowded laboratory bench behind the shop. Sally was enchanted.
    "You'll have to forgive 'em, miss, begging yer pardon," said the little man, whose only name seemed to be Trembler. "It ain't want of breedin', it's want of money."
    "But think what the rich are missing, Trembler," said Rosa. "Who'd ever discover how delicious beef and plum cake are unless they had nothing else to eat?"
    "Oh, come on, Rosa," said Frederick, "we don't starve. We've never gone without a meal. We go without washing dishes, though," he said to Sally. "A matter of principle. No dishes, no washing."
    Sally wondered how they managed with soup, but

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    didn't have time to ask, for every gap in the conversation was filled by their questions, and by the time the meal was over they knew as much as she did about the mystery. Or mysteries.
    "Well, Sally, tell me this," said Frederick (somehow, during the consumption of the plum cake, they had progressed to first-name terms without noticing it). "Why don't you go to the police?"
    "I don't really know. Or—yes, I do know. It's just that it seems to concern my birth—or my father's life in India—my background, anyway—and I want to keep that to myself till I know more about it."
    "Of course you do," said Rosa. "The police are so stupid, Fred—it's the last thing she should do."
    "You have been robbed," Frederick pointed out. "Twice."
    "I'd still rather not. There are so many reasons ... I haven't even told the lawyer about being robbed."
    "And now you've left home," said Rosa. "Where are you going to live.^"
    "I don't know. I must find a room."
    "Well, that's easy. We've got acres of space. You can have Uncle Webster's room for the time being. Trembler will show you where it is. I've got to go and rehearse now. I'll be back later!"
    And before Sally could thank her, she had swept out.
    "Are you sure?" said Sally to Frederick.
    "Well, of course! And if we're going to be businesslike, you can pay rent for it."
    She thought of the tent he'd let her hide in on the sea-front, and her foolish oflfer to pay, and found herself confused; but he was looking away and writing something on a scrap of paper.

    "Trembler," he said, "could you run across to Mr. Eeles's and ask to borrow these books?"
    "Righto, Mr. Fred. But there's them plates to be got up, and the magnesium."
    "Do them when you come back."
    The little man left, and Sally said, "Is his name really Trembler?"
    "His name is Theophilus Molloy. But honestly, could you call anyone Theophilus? I couldn't. And his previous associates used to call him Trembler; I suppose the name stuck. He's an unsuccessful pickpocket. I met him when he tried to pick mine. He was so relieved when I stopped him that he practically wept with gratitude, and he's been with us ever since. But look—I think you ought to read your newspaper. I see you have a copy of The Times. Have a look at page six."
    Sally, surprised, did as he said. Near the foot of the page she found a small paragraph which related the same news that Mr. Hopkins's rather brisker paper had told him the day before.
    "Major Marchbanks dead?" she said. "I can't believe it. And this man—the one in the checkered suit—he was the one who stole the book! The one in the