If the layer of dust on its curved latch was any indication, the door leading off the rear balcony was little-used. "Défense d'entrer", Scott read aloud.

"Which means, 'this way to the party' in French," Kelly nodded. He tested the latch, and found it unlocked.

Mrs. Peel stood just behind him, her arms folded. "Could it be we're expected?"

"We'll soon find out." It was obvious they had nothing to gain by staying in the public galleries; to find Steed, they had to search the out-of-the-way areas. Finding that exhibit 'under repair' might well mean finding Steed. Kelly risked a glance at the Englishwoman, who met his gaze head-on, as if she knew what he was going to say and had already decided that she didn't like it. "There's not the slightest chance we could convince you not to…"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." She stepped past him, gave the door a purposeful shove inward, and moved into the darkness, feeling tentatively with one foot until she found the first in a series of steps leading downward.

Scott gestured for his partner to follow her. "You want to argue with her, or you want to walk without a limp?"

As they worked their way down, Kelly considered the seemingly endless possible scenarios awaiting them. The way things were going, he wouldn't be surprised to find a masked phantom playing Frère Jacques on an antique pipe organ down here. A bunch of people dumb enough to grope their way down a pitch-dark stone stairway in search of a rack, of all things, deserved about just about anything that happened to them, didn't they?

A door opened, and a pool of light appeared below them; the three agents froze. Voices – getting closer.

Dr. LeFond stepped out into the faintly illuminated area. His hushed monologue sounded like instructions to his companion, who stood silently in the shadows. Scotty and Mrs. Peel seemed to be picking up every word, but Kelly was completely lost in the rapid-fire French – until the last instruction. After all, every secret agent in the world learns to recognize – in any language – the words that mean 'kill him'.

You didn't have to be a Rhodes Scholar for that one.

The doctor's companion disappeared back through the door from where the two men had first emerged, and LeFond himself departed through another that led, judging from the traffic noises, out to the boulevard.

"Somebody ought to follow him," Scott risked in a hushed whisper.

"Go for it, Herman," Kelly nodded.

"You gonna be all right?"

"Who knows?"

Kelly and Mrs. Peel followed the hooded man – which posed a new problem when they found four more doors off the corridor on the other side of the one they'd just watched him use. "Just like the fun house at Palisades Park," the American grumbled.

Mrs. Peel gestured to the two doors on the left. "Go for it, Herman." She shrugged when the man gave her a startled glance. "That is the vernacular, isn't it?" She opened the first door cautiously, then vanished into the darkness on the other side.

Steed had his umbrella in hand and was awkwardly attempting to hook the handle around the lever when a most welcome sight walked through the door. "Mrs. Peel!"

"So this is where you've got to." She stood next to the rack, arms folded, perplexed, as she appraised the unusual situation. "Now, how on earth do I get you out of this thing?" She located the lever locking the gears and released it. The excruciating tension released, Steed gratefully took the first deep breath he'd been allowed since Remi had begun his work. "How's that?"

"I would have had it in another moment…"

She eyed him dubiously as she began to untie his feet. "Certain?"

"Guardedly optimistic…"

"I take it you're not hurt."

"Well, not for lack of opportunity…" Over her shoulder, he saw Remi enter the room, battleaxe in hand. "Mrs. Peel!"

She turned in time to duck the heavy axe that sliced the air inches above her head. Before Remi had time to hoist it for another blow, she braced herself against the rack with both hands and delivered a two-footed kick to the masked man's mid-section, neatly doubling him over.

When Remi lunged at her again, bringing the axe down disturbingly close to her left foot, she side-stepped quickly, forcing him to turn as well.

Her next kick, this time to the area of Remi's jawbone, sent him backward across the rack. Steed, hands still bound, squared both feet against the would-be executioner's back and pushed, hurling him face-first against the tiny room's near wall.

The battleaxe crashed to the floor. Remi was momentarily stunned, but recovered quickly and staggered toward Mrs. Peel, both gauntleted hands wide and grasping for her throat.

She forced his huge hands back; he clumsily flung her against a table full of wax body parts, which flew in all directions. When she came back at him, it was with a cold, slippery wax leg in her grasp. She broke it over Remi's head; that gave her an extra second to get into position and send him flying with a judo flip.

Remi nearly bowled Kelly over when he landed; the American had just entered, and barely had time to move aside before the bulky form crashed into the doorframe. He raised both hands, prepared to bring them down on the back of Remi's thick neck – but before he could strike the blow, Remi went down like a two-hundred-pound sack of flour.

"I apologize," Kelly said to Mrs. Peel.

"For what?"

"For everything I've been thinking, but didn't say."

Steed pulled his hands from the loosened ropes, sat up slowly, and tested each arm and leg for serious damage before standing and beginning to straighten his attire. "Pity he's out cold," he said. "We might want to ask him where LeFond's gone off to."

"His hotel," Mrs. Peel filled him in. "We overheard his conversation with that one. He's expecting a call."

"From his bankrollers, no doubt. After all, it is payday."

"What for?"

"Hippocratic oath notwithstanding, the good doctor firmly intended to kill me." Steed adjusted his tie in the hazy reflection of the curtained window, then pressed a hand to the small of his back. "Pity he's not a chiropractor."

Kelly Robinson pulled the black hood from the head of the unconscious Remi. "This is all starting to make some weird kind of sense." He tossed the mask to the floor. "Scotty's tailing the doc back to his hotel."

Steed took a quick look around the dingy room. "I wonder what's become of my bowler?"

"Are you sure you're all right?" Mrs. Peel inquired.

"Why do you ask?"

In another moment, he knew exactly why: he was looking down at her from a totally unaccustomed height.

Then he recognized the reason for the discrepancy, stepped off the platform on which the rack was mounted, and - thankfully – found himself at his usual elevation. "Gave me a bit of a start."

"I shouldn't wonder." She nudged Remi with her foot. "What do we do with this?"

"A nice roomy cage at the zoo comes to mind," Kelly suggested.

"No time."

With insincere apologies to Remi – whom they left trussed up inside a heavy cabinet – and to the nearly completed wax figure of Lord Mountbatten, from whom Steed 'borrowed' the necessary replacement for his missing bowler, the three made a hasty exit from the museum. A clean-up crew would be by in short order to take care of Remi; when they arrived, they would find an extremely uncooperative prisoner. Sore losers were common in this business – but none were more damnably testy than those who had just been laid out by curvaceous redheads in high heels.