****

Chapter 10 - In which information is sought

The waiting proved interminable.

It was still afternoon, yet the back alley in which she'd discovered Verne was thick with shadows. Thankfully, it was bereft of even the most curious of onlookers, with the exception of two brazen rats that she was able to chase away with the some deftly thrown refuse.

Rebecca's first instinct was to sit down and take him into her lap, but the return of the rats and the possibility that his assailants might not have been completely finished with him made her give up that idea immediately - that position was hardly defensible. And here she was dressed for a day out, without anything more lethal than a hatpin on her person!

Well, there were still the brass knuckles in her reticule . . . .

She removed her jacket, flipped it inside out, and folded it into a pad beneath his head. His breathing was more regular than not and the blood on his face appeared to be the result of a cut on his lip and possibly his nose. It didn't look broken - no sign of the purplish bruising that entailed.

There was, of course, no sign of the child.

Rebecca paced and listened to the echo of her heels on the dirty cobblestones. If Verne moved or moaned, she went to him instantly, but even though she called his name or touched his cheek, he remained insensate. She had straightened his limbs, carefully rolled him onto his back, and used her spittle on a handkerchief to wipe the dried blood from his lips and his nose . . . what more was there to do?

It was while she was tending to Verne that she heard the echo of approaching footsteps, but couldn't discern a direction. Eyes keen, she stepped back into the shadows, her fingers digging blindly into her reticule for the added weight of the weapon.

The footsteps, more than one set, resolved themselves into two shadowy figures - which turned out to be Passepartout and another man. The valet was in the lead, urging his companion to greater haste.

The man was too well dressed for an afternoon walk along the boulevard. His top hat was definitely formal, his clothing black as midnight and with barely a crease - only the immaculate black bag he carried seemed to give any hint of his profession. Rebecca stepped forward with no small amount of respect, not knowing whom she might be dealing with. "Monsieur?"

"Miss Fogg? I am Dr. Picot." He gave a stiff, almost formal bow. "Your man-servant said there had been a beating, that someone was badly injured?"

"Yes." Rebecca drew aside, suddenly realizing that she'd been blocking the doctor's view of Verne. There was no reason to chide herself for the action - she'd no idea of who might be approaching. But still . . . . "He was attacked."

Dr. Picot glanced down at Verne, then approached him slowly. "So this man - Passepartout?" The doctor gave Rebecca a questioning look and, after the name was confirmed, nodded toward the valet. "So Passepartout said. Or, I believe was attempting to say. You might convince him there are less dangerous means of getting a man's attention than grabbing hold of a carriage door while it is in motion and raving like a madman."

Rebecca backed away, catching Passepartout's wrist. "Where did you find him?" she hissed quietly.

"As he says - he was driven in a carriage. His luggage was having a medical doctor sign, in silver." When she stared at him, he drew a series of swirls and lines in the air with his finger. "The two snakes and the stick with the leaves."

"A caduceus?"

"Yes. A cacaduceus," agreed Passepartout. "But I was running the one way and the horses were going the other way and I see but not see until I am almost passing the street and then I turn--"

Keeping her eyes on the doctor, who seemed to be giving Verne a cursory examination, Rebecca managed a slight cough of astonishment. "You chased down a carriage? And caught it? On foot?"

"It was not so very fast a carriage," admitted Passepartout. "And I was in hanging from the door for only a minute. The doctor was being kind enough to be stopping very quickly."

Dr. Picot was kneeling beside Verne, seemingly oblivious to the trash that surrounded them or the dirty paving stones beneath his trouserleg. Rebecca moved closer and he said sharply, "Mademoiselle, the light!"

"I beg your pardon," she murmured, and backed away quickly.

He seemed cautious in his movements, turning Verne's head slightly, leaning close to listen to his breathing, unbuttoning the vest and shirt and touching the writer's chest lightly with two fingers. It was to all but the last that Verne remained oblivious. A touch upon the lower right side of his chest induced a moan, a sudden intake of breath, and an attempt to move away.

The movement drew Rebecca nearer. When the doctor looked up at her, she started, realizing that she might be blocking his light again. But Dr. Picot crooked a finger and motioned her toward him. "Your brother?" he asked softly.

"No, a friend. A . . . a family friend," she amended, with just enough hesitation to cause the doctor to smile and nod knowingly.

"Your friend is lucky - there is no blood or froth when he breathes, which means the injury to the rib did not puncture the lung. If he is very lucky, it is merely cracked and not broken, but it is surely more than a bruise." Rising to his feet, Dr. Picot dusted off his hands and faced her. "He must be transferred to a place where I can examine his other injuries."

Before she could move, Passepartout was beside her, whispering softly, "I was instructing the carriage driver to tell Master Fogg what had been happening. If he was being aboard when the driver came, we will be seeing him soon."

"By carriage?" When Passepartout motioned upward with his finger, Rebecca couldn't help but stare. "Do you think that's wise? I know Phileas can be trusted to steer and occasionally navigate the Aurora on his own, but--"

"We have been running out of ports for these bad weathers," replied Passepartout gravely. "I was being busy finding a doctors . . . ."

"And chasing carriages," noted Rebecca wryly. She touched his arm to let him know that she held him no grudge for his decision and gave him a wan smile. "But however will he find us? This section of Paris looks like a maze from the air. Surely he won't be able to see a thing?"

Passepartout's grin was welcome, if surprising under the circumstances. "You will be leaving that to me, Miss Rebecca." Before she could stop him, he dashed out of the alley and into the maze of streets, presumably heading toward the boulevard.

Suddenly realizing that Dr. Picot was watching her with an intently amused air, Rebecca felt self-conscious enough to touch the back of her hair slightly as if to hide the issue of it having been mussed. "Transportation . . . is being arranged."

The statement was weakly announced at best. Wholly unlike her and yet managing something more substantial, like a true explanation of who they were and what they were doing, seemed beyond her reach at the moment. Taking a step closer to where Verne lay, she added, "Your fee will be accorded in full, of course."

Those words seemed even more formal and horribly inept. When had she lost the power of coherent conversation? She was about to try again when a groan from Verne brought her back to the matter at hand.

"Oh, Jules," she said softly, seeing the nascent bruises appearing on his face and his chest, where the doctor had opened his shirt.

Dr. Picot stepped up beside her. "The payment was never in doubt, Mademoiselle." His voice was kind and he touched her upper arm briefly with the tip of his fingers to gain her attention - not an impudent touch, although confident - and gestured down the alley. "Your friend would have done better to relinquish his purse than to tangle with these ruffians. I take it he is not a fighter? He does not visit such places often?"

"No, not at all." Her attention went back to Verne. Noticing that his head was slipping from her jacket, she leaned down to adjust it as best she could, battering down her billowing skirts as she moved. "He's a student. An artist. A writer. A . . . dreamer."

"Indeed."

There was just enough casual amusement in the doctor's tone to set her blood boiling. Rebecca looked up at him sharply. "And they weren't after his purse - they were after a child, one he'd rescued from the streets a few days ago. He was trying to find a proper home for her."

"And the child is--?"

"Gone," Rebecca whispered, still not wanting to accept what that word might entail.

"The gendarmes--?" But when she looked up at him with pursed lips, he sighed. Removing his hat to scratch at his head, which was nearly bald in the back, he nodded sadly. "They would not expend effort to find such a child, yes. You are right. It is a shame that nothing can be done."

"I did not say that, Monsieur," said Rebecca. She began to rise, then accepted the doctor's gracious offer of a hand more out of form than necessity. "Something can and will be done, quite soon."

He watched her again, his eyes intent upon her own. "I confess, Mademoiselle, that I do not understand."

"You will, when you make the acquaintance of my cousin."

There was no chance for him to further investigate her cryptic reply - for which Rebecca was just as thankful - because Passepartout came around the corner at a run, huffing and puffing. "The - Aurora - she - is -"

"Take a breath, man," said Rebecca. "What are you--?"

"Matches!" demanded Passepartout, pointing toward her reticule.

Not entirely certain how he knew she carried the small box of safety matches - one never knew when one was going to need to light a stick of dynamite - Rebecca fished them from her reticule. She tried to put them into Passepartout's hand, but he was pulling from the inside of his coat what looked to be . . . a stick of dynamite.

Eyes widening, Rebecca took a step back. "Surely our situation isn't that desperate?"

"To be signaling - Master Fogg," explained Passepartout, stiff huffing. He leaned down and planted the explosive on the ground, the fuse trailing behind it. It seemed to have some sort of wire tripod base so that it stood erect, pointing toward the sky between the tenement walls. "You will be lighting this, please."

Realizing that he was still trying to catch his breath and was in as much danger of blowing out the fuse as lighting it, Rebecca opened the small box and struck one of the matches against its side and then the fuse. The fire hissed at the wick immediately and Passepartout caught her arm, pushing her back toward Verne and Dr. Picot. The doctor, for his own part, seemed fascinated.

"Very clever," he noted, with no small amount of approval, before returning to Verne's side.

"I had seen when we were in the shopping today," said Passepartout, watching the lit fuse intently, as if fearing it might go out. "Even in the days light, Master Fogg will be seeing this." "If it doesn't burn a hole in the Aurora and blow him to kingdom come." When Passepartout shot a worried look at her, she gave him a supportive smile. "I'm joking. That thing won't reach anywhere near--"

A whistle, a pop, and a bang drowned out the end of her sentence. Light shot from the explosive in three short bursts before the container tipped over on its side and seemed to crumple in upon itself. Three bursts of color appeared in the sky over their heads, washed out by the daylight, but still visible.

There was silence for a moment. Rebecca shook her head, as much to clear the burst of sound from her ears as in amazement. "I want a half dozen of those, Passepartout. No, best make it a dozen. Although Phileas would probably forbid me bringing them aboard the Aurora. You might have to ship them directly to Shillingworth Magna."

"Yes, Miss Rebecca," said Passepartout, pointing upward, "but I am hearing--"

The slight chuf-chuf of the Aurora's propellers was distinctly audible in the stillness following the explosive demonstration. Its shadow fell over the alley, so that what little light that had reached the paving stones was dimmed.

Rebecca found this darkness a welcome relief. Even as the lift began to descend, she turned toward Dr. Picot and noticed a look of apprehension on his face as he knelt beside Verne. "It's perfectly safe," she assured him. "Passepartout will take you and Jules up directly."

"But, Miss Rebecca--"

Lowering her voice, she shifted closer to Passepartout and whispered, "The doctor looks worried. I'd rather not give him a reason to bolt at the moment." When he hesitated, she gave him what passed for a reassuring smile, at least under these circumstances. "You can't be worrying about my safety?"

"If you are staying here, no. But if you are going there--" Passepartout gestured down one of the now darkened alleys.

There were signs of life now, no doubt brought out by the explosion and the sudden cessation of daylight in late afternoon due to the Aurora's presence. They hung back - a few men, a woman or two among the crowd - not entirely certain they weren't under attack, but keeping their distance just the same. There were indignant murmurs, fearful whispers, wide eyes and angry scowls. Who knew if Verne's attackers were among them?

For the moment, Rebecca found she hated every one of them. She could, quite cheerfully, have broken every man there in half until she'd gotten the answers she wanted. For the moment, all she knew was that Aimee had been taken into the depths of one of those festering sores of a Paris slum.

"If you try on your own, you will not be finding the littles girl," said Passepartout softly.

She found herself in sudden sympathy with Phileas, who often assumed a slightly annoyed and puzzled look when his valet managed to pluck his private thoughts seemingly from the air and addressed them aloud. Then, just as now, Passepartout merely met one's gaze with a steady, resigned look that surpassed all understanding.

It occurred to her that he was entirely unconscious of having performed these tricks of mental prestidigitation. Even if she brought it to his attention, she doubted he would be able to explain how he knew them so well, after so brief a period in their company. The added thought that it might not have taken must effort on his part was disturbing.

Dear Lord, were they really that transparent?

"You're right," she agreed, "but I'd still rather you took Verne and the doctor aloft before me than risk the four of us on the lift at the same time." Passepartout nodded, but continued to watch her, as if measuring how much he could trust her response. Annoyed, she added, "Come now, you know I'm not about to do anything foolishly rash. As least not to the level of which Phileas is capable."

"Oh no, not like master. When you have anger, you burn hot. Master burns cold." Passepartout favored her with a tight smile. "I am thinking, Miss Rebecca, that those men who have been beating up Jules and have been taking the little miss will be wishing they had not been birthed."

"Damned straight," she replied, through gritted teeth. And a glance over her shoulder at Verne - still lying in the street - was more than a compelling reason to ignore the half-promise she'd just made to Passepartout and slink out into these darkened alleys on her own vendetta.

For the moment, there were other matters to consider. Rebecca moved automatically to Verne's head, with Passepartout positioning himself at Verne's knees, both intending to carry her friend to the lift platform . . . but Dr. Picot caught her arm.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle," he said firmly, "but if you would take my bag--?"

Rebecca stared at the leather medical bag he held out to her, not knowing whether to be annoyed or amused. Before she could frame a suitable answer, Dr. Picot took her palm and pressed the handle of the bag into it. "There is the cracked rib - I should not want to have it break and puncture the lung as we carry your young man to safety, not after he has been this lucky. In these matters, I think I know best."

Taking the hint, she demurely backed away, watching as Dr. Picot instructed Passepartout on how to properly move Verne. The men counted together as they lifted him - she thought she heard a groan from Verne, but couldn't be entirely sure. Rebecca shadowed their steps, staying close but keeping alert to the presences in the alleys that bordered on their location. She nearly laughed aloud, suddenly realizing that she was unconsciously covering their backs.

Well, of course. They were in hostile territory, after all.

The doctor was precise about the placement of Verne on the platform. Only when he was satisfied did he nod to Passepartout to signal for the ascent. It was as she placed his medical bag at his feet that she saw his white-knuckled grip on the lift cables.

"It is perfectly safe?" Dr. Picot asked, his question an echo of her earlier assurance.

Rebecca smiled. "As you say."

The smile faded as she stepped backward, the lift lurching slightly as it began to rise. Verne's face was level with her own for a moment - there was a nasty bruise on his right cheek. The thought occurred to her that this time he hadn't been fast enough in turning it. And there was something else, something the doctor had just said . . . .

Her young man.

She called upward, toward the ascending lift. "He's not my young man."

The doctor leaned slightly to one side, as if unable to hear her. "Pardon?"

"He's not my young man!" she called again.

He was too far away to see clearly, but she could have sworn the doctor smiled at her. "As you say, Mademoiselle," he called back. "As you say."

Again, Rebecca wasn't certain whether to be angered or amused by this odd French doctor. He dressed like an aristocrat, treated Verne as carefully as she guessed he might treat a member of his own family, remained unflappable in the face of explosives, and yet seemed to have a substantial, if conquerable, fear of heights. Trust Passepartout to have found the only doctor in Paris who actually might be able to help them.

He might even be able to withstand an hour of two of Phileas' well-meaning, but interfering, presence.

Which brought to mind another point - whether she should take matters into her own hands and begin the search for Aimee. She wasn't dressed for it, nor armed properly, but either one of those reasons could be easily dismissed. It was the third factor that kept her from wandering down a side alley while the lift was ascending; no matter how many questions she wanted answered, there was someone who could match all of them and add yet one more - how could she have let this happen?

What the hell was she going to tell Phileas?

She took a moment to investigate the area, trying to recreate the fight in her head, then amended the description. It had been less a fight than a beating. There was a smear of fresh blood on the wall at about Verne's height, perhaps a scrape of flesh . . . and she smiled to herself, realizing that he'd known enough to duck at least once. There hadn't been much area covered, but a beating wouldn't require that; no real effort to pinning a man against a wall and showering blow after blow upon him until he could no longer keep his feet.

There were unclear footprints, enormous boot heels and toes, half circles in the grime and muck. So, his attacker was large; easy enough to deduce from the scrape of knuckles that high up on the wall. A short distance away were smaller prints, mixing with a print that could have come from a patched sole. The barest scrap of colored ribbon brought a lump to her throat - she couldn't bring herself to reach down to collect it. What would be the point, after all? Just a hair ribbon for a rag doll, of no real consequence.

At least Aimee still had the doll.

Rebecca stood for a moment and stared down the alley - it branched at the far end into another street. There would be no way to track the child on foot. Perhaps in a day or so, if they watched the ragshops - for surely her clothing, bonnet and shoes would be sold and replaced with poorer fare. There might be a chance of finding the men, for there had been at least two who had taken Aimee from them, by speaking with the shop owners, leaving a description of the clothing for a reward . . . .

They did not have a day or so. She had to leave tomorrow night for Spain, at the very latest, and now she would need the Aurora to get there.

Growling beneath her breath in lieu of a scream of frustration, Rebecca flung her arm recklessly; her reticule swung out and clanged against the hard brick of the wall. The sound didn't quite echo, but there was an increase in the murmurs from the shadowed doorways and alley entrances.

She whirled in place before they could duck back and called, "Did anyone see who attacked this man? I'll give fifty francs for any information."

The offer of money usually drew them out of hiding - even the ones who knew nothing but hoped to make off with the money - but her words, and the amount offered, were enough to let them know a serious crime had been committed. First the men, and then the women, slunk back into their homes, or taverns, or rooming houses, or whatever they called these little slices of hell. If they knew who was responsible, they feared the attackers more than they coveted the fifty francs.

The question was, could she manage to make them fear her even more than the attackers?

The lift had been returning. Rather than wait for it to reach the ground, Rebecca grasped the cables and hauled herself upward, rolling onto the platform. Dignity was the least of her concerns and she ignored the sound of her skirt hem catching a sharp edge and tearing. She tugged the cable to let them know she was ready to ascend, then positioned herself to get the best view possible of where they had been and what it looked like from the air. There was enough to see - too much to memorize at a glance, but she believed she could direct Passepartout to this location in utter darkness.

And it would be utter darkness, because it had to be tonight. This could not be left until her return. Nor did she dare contemplate what would happen if she and Passepartout took the Aurora to Spain and left Phileas here to find the child on his own. He would, of course, eventually find the ruffians that had attacked Verne - she had no doubt of that - but there was collateral damage to consider. Common talk that a well-dressed gentleman was making violent inquiries would make possession of the child an asset. If the child was thought to be of worth, she would be hidden.

Fifty francs.

She'd been a fool.

Phileas was waiting for her, offering her a wordless and gallant hand out of the lift dock. His expression was grim, although he seemed to hold no ill will toward her. He opened his lips once as if to speak, hesitated, then said, "I believe Verne's deficiencies in the matter of self-defense need to be addressed as soon as possible. Wouldn't you agree?"

It was meant to make her smile and she did so, touching his arm as she passed by him to let him know that she appreciated the attempt. "He did duck once."

"Did he? Capital." Phileas was close behind her, catching her on the stairway by placing his arm before her so that she was effectively trapped. "The doctor is tending to him, so we have a minute. What do we know?"

"That Jules was attacked in one of the city's seediest districts." She paused, watching the slightest flicker of Phileas' eyes for disappointment - it was like being held accountable for lessons by a schoolmaster. "That's it. The rest is supposition. I believe that he and Aimee were specifically lured away from the boulevard."

"With regard to theft, Verne would be a victim of opportunity, not choice. And even if these were child-strippers by trade, they'd have removed her finery and released Aimee no more than an alley or two away. She was the target. That he happened to be close enough to follow her was damned bad luck."

"Bad luck?" She swallowed in anger at the cool calculation of his words, remembering what she'd seen of the bruises on Verne. "When I reached him, he thought he was dying."

"If he hadn't been beaten, there would be four of us to find the child, instead of three," answered Phileas, in the same cold, capable tone. When she pushed against his arm angrily, he tightened his grip on the railing and moved his other arm to draw her closer. His voice whispered in her ear, "We will find her; I give you my word on that. Tonight, if at all possible. But we deal with this as a mission, action based on logic. No recriminations, no guilt, no emotion until after the fact, until it's done . . . one way or another. Agreed?"

A chill traveled her spine at his words, but whether it was caused by the content of his speech or his breath on her ear, she couldn't say. For a moment Rebecca suspected that her knees were no longer going to hold and she was almost grateful for the supportive pressure of his arm against her waist.

It made sense. The relief in not having to immediately discuss what had gone wrong and who might be at fault overwhelmed her and freed her at the same time. What was there to do but agree?

"Yes," Rebecca answered, a bit more breathlessly than she'd expected. And then frowning at her own apparent weakness, looked away from his eyes. "We need Jules. We need what he knows. Much as I hate to do it, we'll have to bring him around."

"Your Dr. Picot has already insisted on that, says he can't complete his examination without assuring himself there are no other injuries." Phileas' left arm dropped away, no longer blocking her path or supporting her waist - she felt a sudden loss at that. "Where did you find this man?"

"He's not my doctor," she explained, heading up the stairs. "Passepartout fetched him. He chased the man's carriage through the streets, then hung off the door until it stopped."

"The devil you say! Chased the carriage through the streets? If this had happened in London, I'd have been hard-pressed to face the members of my club for at least a week. I'll have a talk with him about such nonsense - a valet chasing carriages through the streets of Paris!"

But there was a note of pride to his tone, for all of his disgruntled commentary. And Rebecca smiled softly to herself, with the thought that this part of the adventure was the stuff of legend. Poor Passepartout would suffer recounting of his carriage-chasing for some time to come.

She sobered as she reached the door to Verne's room, raised her hand . . . then found she couldn't knock. As if pretending that she hadn't made the attempt, Phileas knocked once and opened the door a crack, peering around the door.

"Doctor?"

"Yes, Monsieur Fogg. I've finished for the moment. You may enter, now," said Dr. Picot, an absent note to his voice, as if his attention were elsewhere. "And Mademoiselle Fogg as well, if she's with you."

Rebecca had found few things as spiritually disheartening as entering the sick room of a friend or family member who was normally an energetic and well-natured being; a pallid face, listless or trembling hands, and the smell of medicine stirred conflicting emotions within her. Illness was no foe to be physically conquered with fists or bullets or edged weapons and so she felt helpless and at a loss. To be honest, she believed nurturing was not one of her stronger traits and the temptation to flee after a few minutes was almost overwhelming.

Except, of course, when she was on a mission and needed information.

Verne was lying in bed, a blanket drawn nearly up to his neck. Passepartout hovered to the right, holding a tray upon which were such items as bandage, small scissors, and a few tiny bottles with stoppers. To the left of the bed, Dr. Picot had set his medical bag, in which he now seemed to be rummaging.

"How is he?" she asked, her voice softened by the respectful silence.

"He will recover, Mademoiselle Fogg, with time and care. He is young." Replacing an instrument in his bag, Dr. Picot finally straightened and found himself faced with Phileas. "Monsieur Fogg, we were not properly introduced, with the necessity of moving this young man to safer quarters. I am Dr. Raymond Picot, in service to his majesty, Napoleon III."

The slight bow and heel click helped Rebecca cover her own surprise - she glanced quickly at Passepartout, whose eyes were like saucers. In response, he gave a slight shrug of wonderment.

"Phileas Fogg," followed by an equally graceful bow, "at your service and in your debt, for assisting my friend, Monsieur Verne. May I offer my wishes for the best of health for his majesty?"

"He is well, Monsieur. I will pass along your regards."

Rebecca tried not to smile - it never ceased to astound her how Phileas could fall so easily and elegantly into diplomatic formality.

"Thank you. You are a physician, sir?"

"Physician and surgeon, Monsieur," said the doctor, with something of twinkle in his eye. "We French are beginning to adopt the new term of which you English are so fond - the 'general practitioner'?" And then he nodded ruefully, "Although my current responsibilities include nothing more life threatening than a severe bout of indigestion. This--" he gestured at Verne, "was a welcome reminder of my true calling. I must thank your man for stopping my carriage."

Phileas cleared his throat and shot a sharp look at Passepartout. "I apologize if the approach of my valet was untoward--"

"Think nothing of it, sir. In fact," he took a watch from his vest pocket and consulted it, "I should like to be of further assistance to you, if I may. But I would like to notify Madame Picot that I am well and shall miss supper. I did leave my carriage driver rather abruptly - he is probably still awaiting my return in the boulevard."

"Of course. See to it, Passepartout, if you would."

"Yes, master." There was barely a flick of Phileas' hand toward his valet, and Passepartout was out the door.

The spot vacated, Rebecca moved to the far side of the bed and picked up the tray Passepartout had discarded. She placed it carefully on the nightstand. Her hand was close enough to brush Verne's shoulder and she did so, her fingertips finding his skin not uncommonly warm. That was a reassuring sign - a lack of fever.

"When will he awaken?" she asked, looking up at Dr. Picot. "We have some questions that need to be answered."

Rebecca almost missed it, the curious expression on Phileas' face - she hadn't realized he'd been watching her. But he turned away on the instant, busying himself with his own watch as if absolutely needing to determine the exact time.

"We can bring him around to wakefulness at any time," said Dr. Picot. "I think it better for him to rest naturally, but with the pain, it will be necessary to give him a soporific. Before that - Monsieur Fogg, if you would allow me to show you something?" Dr. Picot turned a sympathetic smile toward Rebecca. "Mademoiselle Fogg, I beg your momentary indulgence, if you would turn?"

Rebecca stared at him blankly for a moment, then realized that his hand was on the blanket and that he meant to uncover some part of Verne. Gathering from his naked shoulder and the outlines of the sheet that her friend truly was in a state of undress, she was about to turn when it occurred to her that the request was absolutely and utterly absurd.

In fact, she was well on her way to airing that view when she caught Phileas' gaze . . . and realized this was not, perhaps, the best time to fight this particular battle.

She turned away.

"You see the bruises?" asked Dr. Picot, as Phileas muttered his assent. "The knuckle marks are almost distinct. Your fist - there, the man who struck him had hands much larger than your own. And the bruises are well placed, never upon one another. The exercise was to inflict pain, but not cause permanent damage. A man with this power could have killed your friend easily, yet he did not."

"A pugilist?" Phileas' voice held a small note of wonder.

"The bruise is the marker of the man. Find the boxer who made that mark and you will have your attacker." Dr. Picot cleared his throat. "You may turn now, Mademoiselle."

Rebecca had been listening intently, while staring at a framed map on the wall. "Would it be possible," she asked, turning back toward them, "to photograph an injury and then match the hand of the man who had made it?"

Phileas looked down for a moment and coughed into his hand. "Rebecca, I hardly think that Verne would appreciate having a photographer hauled into his sickroom to take pictures of his--"

"No, Mademoiselle is correct," said Dr. Picot, a touch of admiration in his voice. "I serve on many boards, one of them advising the ministry of justice as to the investigation of criminal activity. Photographs are used to identify the unknown dead pulled from the Seine, or found beaten in alleyways, like your friend here. The matter of using photographs to match a criminal to a crime has been much discussed of late."

"Do you think it would be of any use?" she asked, pointedly ignoring Phileas.

"In this case?" Dr. Picot stroked his chin and then shrugged. "On a living body, bruises heal. And then only if there are suspects . . . no, I do not think it would be of an advantage now. But in the matter of the child, should any bodies be found, to identify a photograph is far easier--"

If he said anything after that, Rebecca didn't hear the words. She looked instantly at Phileas and found his gaze already on her. As much as he had cautioned emotionless detachment on the stairs, his eyes were hard and cold in their ferocity.

"I think," he said firmly, "we need to speak with Verne. Doctor, if you would?"

"Of course, although I would advise against it." He glanced up at Rebecca. "Mademoiselle Fogg, is there water? His throat will be dry. If you wish him to speak--?"

There was a bowl of water and a cloth on the end table. Passepartout would have brought in a pitcher . . . which rested on a shelf at the side of the room. Rebecca walked over to retrieve it and a glass as well. Placing the two on the nightstand, she drew up a chair beside the bed and took Verne's right hand lightly between her own.

"If you would hold down his shoulders, lightly Monsieur Fogg - yes," directed Dr. Picot, as he removed a small, stoppered glass tube from his bag. "When he awakens, he will automatically breathe deeply. The pain from the cracked rib . . . better to hold him down, or he might break it entirely in his struggle."

Phileas placed a hand on either of Verne's shoulders then turned his head to look at her. Their gazes met and held for a moment, a silent agreement that this would not be allowed to happen again. Then Dr. Picot removed the stopper from the bottle and waved beneath Verne's nose.

Ammonia - the fumes were strong enough to make her eyes water. Phileas got the second worst shot of it - he blinked, turned his head, and closed his eyes tightly, but did not release his hold on Verne. Which was just as well, because Verne choked, sputtered, and tried to sit upright almost instantly.

Two things stopped him, the pressure Phileas held on his shoulders and the sudden pain. She saw it happening - saw that first deep breath, Verne's eyes opening in astonishment and then screwed shut in agony. There wasn't enough air for him to scream and the cry that came out of him was more like a high-pitched hiss.

It was more than enough to make her understand that awakening Verne had been a very bad idea indeed.

****

End of Chapter Ten

****