Carcel stood in front of the tall mirror in his dressing room. His valet, a quiet man named Pierre, was brushing invisible lint from the shoulders of Carcel's dinner jacket.
Carcel looked calm. His face was a mask of perfect noble detachment. But inside, his mind was working like the gears of a clock.
The door opened. Mr. Vance entered without knocking. This was a privilege only Vance had.
Carcel nodded to Pierre. "Leave us."
Pierre bowed and vanished into the side room.
Carcel turned to Vance. "Is she safe?"
"Miss Gladys is home," Vance reported. He stood by the door, his hands clasped behind his back. "She is shaken, but unharmed. My men intercepted the extraction team in the alley."
"And the men who attacked her?" Carcel asked. He adjusted his sapphire cufflinks.
