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At 11 pm Charles Ruskin headed for the exit of Casino Milano. His cocky smirk and confident swagger gave the impression of a successful gambler, not of a pissed-off spy who had failed his mission. Reaching the double swing door he pushed the right door open, just as the left was pushed open from the outside. A bull-necked man entered. He had a crooked nose and shrewd eyes like a boxer who knew all the dirty tricks. When Ruskin hurried past the man, something brushed against his leg. A paper bag in the boxer’s left hand. Violet, and imprinted with frilly letters obscured by curly flowers. Ruskin deciphered part of the text, s-i-g-n, and then the door swung shut behind him. In the vestibule, he slowed down. Now what? Ignore the lead that had been thrown at him and accept failure. Or risk missing the last airship to London and thereby disobeying a direct order. He strode back and pushed the door open. A clamour of voices hit him. He dived back into cigar smoke and perfume fragrances. Beneath the candle chandeliers, the boxer zig-zagged through the crowd of guests parading flattering gowns, tailored coats, flowing saris, and diamond-studded turbans. He got slowed down by a throng of gamblers watching a mechanical mermaid rise from the water of a roulette pool. Ruskin drew closer as the mermaid, to a chorus of sighs and cheers, opened a seashell and revealed the number 9 set in red pearls. He manoeuvred to a spot that would give him a good look at the bag, just as the boxer shifted it to his right hand and elbowed his way out of the crowd. Ruskin felt a hand on his arm. “Did you lose?” A woman looked up at him with wide eyes and an inviting smile. Had he let his annoyance show? “Bad timing. Sorry.” He turned away and looked around. The boxer was walking around a diorama of volcanos erupting with gas flames. Ruskin circled it in the opposite direction. Intricate models of passenger-carrying balloons drifted down from the ceiling. Earlier, he had won a fair amount by betting on which balloons would land safely and which would perish in a volcano. He timed himself so he got a clear view of the bag when the boxer walked away from the diorama. The text read, Signorina Elegante. His fleeting impression had been spot on. Now it was a question of what the man did next. The risk of being spotted would be too high if he continued walking directly behind his quarry. Instead, he made a detour to a group of brass sculptures of nymphs lounging around a pond. When the boxer stopped and looked around, Ruskin turned his back to him and tossed a coin into the water. A nymph lifted an amphora and poured wine into a goblet. The boxer seemed to be heading to the back of the room. In front of a Japanese temple, two clockwork samurai shot arrows at a target, surrounded by a group of gamblers shouting encouragements. Keeping the group between himself and the boxer, Ruskin once again closed the distance. The boxer glanced around and slipped into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the casino. Ruskin reached the entrance to the aisle. The narrow space was dark and empty, but 5 feet down a door in the outer wall closed with a metallic clank. He strode down the aisle andd tried the handle. Locked. He drew his watch from his waistcoat pocket. If he didn’t leave soon, he would miss his flight. He pressed three time on the crown of the watch. An L-shaped metal rod swung out from the side of the watch. He knelt and inserted the rod into the lock and delicately worked the crown. As a Hound he was free to take on missions at his own discretion. But not to disobey a direct order. There would be wrath in the kennel. A clunk sounded from the lock. Screw them all. He opened the door. Rain hit his face. The light from the surrounding skyscraper revealed the boxer halfway across a bridge to a docking tower.