Over the next forty-eight hours, a somewhat uneasy truce descends upon the general environs of Casino Island.

In the suite at Shepherd's Hotel occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Tush, the air is quite frosty, even without the benefit of that establishment's state-of-the-art air conditioning. Mr. Tush, heated denials notwithstanding, has stated that he had nothing to do with the mysterious appearance of the sapphire necklace, and has been sent to that fine old English city, Coventry.

This confuses Jake, who seeks knowledge at the hooves of Sergei Ivanovich.

"I don't get it, boss. Iffen dat dame's mad at Mister Tush, how come she ain't speakin' t'him?"

"In this, Citizen Jake, we must understand the psychology of the individual. Mrs. Tush is a sow for whom the spoken word is all. Ironic, when you consider she is the de facto publisher of a number of magazines. Nevertheless, in her mind (such as it is), silence is an awful weapon. She knows not that silence, for Mr. Tush, is the equivalent of being thrown bodily into the briar patch."

A furrowed brow from the catamount. "Chee, dat's bad, ain't it?"

"Place this on your list of things to do, Citizen Jake: "familiarize myself with the works of certain American authors to be named later." You will be a happier and broader feline for it."

"Hey."

"Yes, Citizen?"

"I almost fergot. Mister Tush gave me dis."

An envelope, somewhat the worse for wear, is passed over. Upon its crumpled face can be noted Sergei Ivanovich's name. The addressee having taken charge of the matter, an opening is effected, and contents extracted. Namely, ten notes of the denomination of twenty Spontoon pounds. The bills are inspected, counted, and once numbered, reinserted into the envelope, which is secured in the inside of the Great Organizer's jacket.

"H--"

"I anticipate your "hey," Citizen Jake. You crave enlightenment. A worthy objective. There are furs in Japan who only achieve it by means of years of raking gravel, and it is only when a particular stone hits a particular tine, that that wonderful state knows as sartori sets in. You are fortunate: your path to knowledge is shorter and straighter. You wish to know what I propose to do with this monetary windfall?"

"Yeah! Dat's a lotta dough, boss."

"Quite. And you wish to spend your share on a lavish supply of comestibles, correct?"

"No. I wanna buy some hamburgers."

"Add this to your list of things to do, Citizen Jake: "acquire dictionary." Citizens without dictionaries merely exist. But I digress. I have sound and statesfur-like reasons for withholding your share, and for that matter, withholding my share from myself. While the prospect of a large bowl of borscht and a loaf of fresh-baked black bread appeals deeply to my Slavic soul, I must put aside such meager considerations, and think of higher things."

"What's higher than food, boss?"

"Consider, Citizen Jake, that we have not accomplished either of our critical objectives. In the first instance, making sure that Citizens Trotter and Morgan find bliss..."

"Dat dame's sweet on dat guy already."

"You speak sweet and holy truth, Citizen, but it is one thing for those two to know it, and another for society itself to know it, in particular Citizen von der Wald. To continue: there is also the matter of Citizeness Tush, who needs to be convinced that the next great thing in Art is a pencil wielded by Citizen Morgan. I have been slack, unforgivably slack, and have made as much progress as the armies of the King of England in Flanders."

"Yeah. But yer smart, boss. You'll figger somethin' out."

A small paw is placed on massive shoulder, something which requires standing on tip-hoof. Nevertheless, it is done.

"Your vote of confidence, Citizen Jake, moves my soul deeply. It shows me that all my efforts to raise class consciousness in you have NOT been in vain. The parade moves on! Where, I know not, but it moves on!"

Downstairs, at a table at L'Etoile d'Argent, there is a similar degree of silent frost in the air. It can be found at the table where Henry von der Wald and Phoebe Trotter are sitting.

While she missed seeing certain of the dramatic events of the tail-end of the party, including the tail-end of her fiancé, certain second-and-third paw reports of the matter have reached her ears. This is inclusive of the fact that the wolf mel, being the gentlefur he is down to his toe-claws, brought the Princess safely to her bed. How long he lingered there is a matter that no femme-fur of breeding would ask, and no mel would speak of. Hence, the strained atmosphere at the luncheon-table.

On board the Polar Sun, there is peace and quiet. This is a marvel to all and sundry that man the vessel, since under ordinary circumstances, the fiasco that the party devolved into would have dire effects. But from the royal bedroom suite, all is silent, except for the occasional high-pitched whimper, overheard by servants listening at keyholes. Intelligence-gathering, you see. That's their story, and they are sticking to it.

Princess Moushaska has a few things on her mind, and only one of them is concerned with how she needs to get her paws on some ready, hard cash in the near future. Many of the other things concern the wolf of Wall Street that rescued her. Granted, the Princess can swim quite well, and truth be told wasn't in the slightest need of assistance. This, however, is not at all the same thing as to say the assistance was not welcome. Getting grabbed and hoisted over a shoulder by a strong and evidently very virile member of one's own species for honourable reasons is bound to have certain effects. The evidence the wolfess observed had been turned over and over in her mind, and found quite persuasive.

It is indeed a very thoughtful wolfess that, in robe de chambre, makes her plans for the next day. First, a morning at the card-tables. Second, a leisurely picnic lunch with this wolf, by way of thanks. After that, the appointment book is blank, depending on events. The car is to be made ready, along with a substantial repast.

A substantial repast is something that Stanley Morgan would very much like at the moment, but a number of things intervene. For one, there is the matter of practice at the drawing-board. It is like the pianist, who says that if he does not practice for two days, the audience knows it, and if he skips a day, he himself knows it. Keeping fluid with one's pencil is a never-ending task.

Surprisingly, perhaps, the drawing pad is filled with studies of roebuck heads.

Of course, the lack of funds for a substantial repast is another matter. Not that the stallion is flat broke. In fact, buried snugly under a mattress is an envelope recently placed there, the proceeds of some vigorous salesfurship with local proprietors, who appreciate fast, accurate and eye-catching work. Stanley Morgan is denying himself luxuries, in favour of bigger objectives. Little wonder he and the Great Organizer are of one mind.

We continue the theme of chill. Unhappily for both sets of reporters, there is a certain level of acrimony. The Daily Elele reporter and photographer have by far the worst of it, being given a stern lecture on the basics of the profession. Including not bolting from a story until it's finished. By contrast, at the Mirror, there is some sympathy, since after all the reporter could file a story noting that he himself had been vigorously assaulted by an assailant or assailants unknown in the course of the affray. The photographer is furious, and vows unholy revenge on the _________ that nicked his Speed Graphic, which one imagines is not easily replaceable in the North Pacific.

Lastly, there is the HQ of the Spontoon Islands Constabulary, just a short water-taxi ride away on Meeting Island. Both members of the Detective Bureau have spent long hours attempting to piece together what had happened. At least the jewel robbery could be tied up, since the missing jewels were found. Admittedly, on the bosom of Xanthippe Tush, but it is clear from assorted documentation that warning was given to the Constabulary before the party, and that by no means was Mrs. Tush some sort of porcine Raffles, the amateur cracksfur.

No violent demands for prosecution of Mrs. Tush in the matter of the jewels coming from the Polar Sun, the matter is quietly docketed and hurriedly buried.

Still open is the matter of the theft of property belonging to the reporter and photographer from the Mirror, which unlike the jewels is being vigorously prosecuted, and one other matter, which the Inspector is poring over.

The Foreign Ministry keeps very good track of all visitors to the Islands that are planning on staying more than a few days, which includes the crew of the Polar Sun. Noteworthy on the manifest is the name of a Second Steward, listed as Pavel Ivanovich Chichikoff.

The whitetail buck, being a highly educated and multi-lingual deer, immediately senses the presence of an imposition, and discreet enquiries have already been made to the captain of the vessel, who indicated that the fur in question was a roebuck, but had abandoned ship upon arrival in the Spontoons.

The Inspector has his own list of things to do, and one that unlike Citizen Jake's, has the force of Law behind it. A warrant for the arrest of one Sergei Ivanovich, surname unknown, alias Pavel Ivanovich Chichikoff, is made out in longpaw.

Actually, this is not quite the last item during the lull. Father Merino, of St. Anthony's Church, Meeting Island, is deeply startled during Mass to hear hymns sung at a volume and sweetness of tone long absent from the small and aged congregation. How and from where came the catamount taking up a sizable hunk of pew is one question, but it is put aside for the simple pleasure of hearing the ancient Latin sung properly.

The feline shyly vanishes after the Mass before a word could be had. A resolution is made by the old ram to have a word with the Castilian deer running the LYRC orchestra. The words of Romans 11:33 come immediately to his mind.