Desperation and Decision by Sophronia Belle Lyon

London 189-- Chapter One
    The sign outside what appeared to be an
ordinary, even rather small, London shop read simply,
"Tobacconist." The tiny establishment did a trickling trade and its
patrons came and went as patrons of small shops usually did. On
certain days and at certain times, however, certain patrons seemed
to linger in the shop an unusually long time. The general public
wondered about me, the quaint foreigner who ran the shop, but
admitted they knew no harm of me. I was considered neat, even a
little bit of a dandy, taking walks about town with a gaudy crested
ring and a brocaded red satin waistcoat beneath my tidy, if
slightly out of fashion black suit. Women said they thought me
rather handsome and exceedingly polite and gallant. Men gave me
little or no thought unless they had business at the tobacco
shop.
    Today was one of those days when certain
patrons had cause to linger. I opened a door in the back of the
shop and those certain patrons passed through into the Bohemian
Club. I had painstakingly managed to acquire presentable furniture,
comfortable chairs, a few tables for card-playing, and a small but
respectable liquor cabinet. The best of my stock of tobacco was
kept back here in a vault that raised and lowered by clockwork and
steam from the cool recesses of the cellar. This bronze humidor
kept the tobacco perfectly preserved.
    My patrons sampled more of my atmosphere than
of my tobacco, liquor, or my cards, or they did not return a second
time to my club. I grouped my chairs and other furnishings
carefully. Those who wished a quiet place for reading the papers
were not troubled by those who gathered by the hearth to chat.
Those who desired a gentlemanly game of cards did not discompose
those who simply wanted to think and enjoy a peaceful smoke.
    Today I reclined against the mantle and
listened to the talk. It was easy and pleasant at first and I was
lulled into a half-doze until a voice started to elevate subtly in
volume. Someone was telling a war story and I came alert to listen.
For ten full minutes I fixed my attention on this guest of a
regular member and his tale of daring do. Then I interrupted
him.
    "You are a guest," I said. "I make allowances
for mistakes made by guests of the members, unless they breach the
bounds of propriety, sir."
    "I've done nothing improper!" spluttered the
guest.
    "But you have, sir. Your tale is about
yourself. It is not permitted that guests exalt themselves in my
establishment. You may regale us with heroics but they cannot be
your own. I waited to see if the one who invited you would recall
his duty but he has not. So I ask you both to leave and not
return."
    "Bosh!" exclaimed the member. "It was a great
yarn, Florrie! You'll not seriously bar me permanently, will
you?"
    "Indeed, I will, because I can," I responded.
"For ten years of my life I listened to the boasts of a man and
could not discern that his boasting marked him as a liar and a
selfish, cruel brute. So I paint all boasters with that brush, and
banish them from my presence. But before you gentlemen depart, let
me tell you a 'great yarn,' and a true one, featuring a true
hero."
    When I had finished telling them the story of
a lost and hunted prince spirited out of his country by a noble
friend, they had no words except that every man jack hurried the
braggart and the former member on their way out of the club
room.
    Afterward Trevor arrived and the room gave
him a standing ovation, for it was not the first time I had made
the company aware of what my friend had done for me. Trevor blushed
and stammered as always before folding his lanky frame into a chair
and accepting one of my best Cubans and a brandy. Never did Trevor
pay for a thing he consumed in my shop or my club.
    Nor ever would he.

    "Say, do you repair pipes?" Clearly this was
American. He was also the tallest, awkwardest man who had ever set
foot in my shop. He pulled down a pair of blue leather goggles and
revealed brilliant but clearly