You, dear reader, have no doubt commented on the fact that Moushaska has been unusually lenient in her prosecution of certain furs. The explanation is simple: while the quality of mercy is not strained, Her Serene Highness' nerves most certainly have been.

There's an old phrase that ladies should only appear in the newspapers on three occasions: when they are born, when they marry, and when they shuffle off this mortal coil. Not always possible for royalty, of course, but the principle still holds.

The wolfess, during her night behind bars (she had no intentions of falling asleep in such conditions), considered her position. Prosecution, while well within her rights, also bore certain risks. Such as awkward questions as to what, precisely, she was doing at the picnic spot.

Mark you, what she was doing at the picnic spot is something of great interest to her. It has even driven her to the extreme of consulting that noteworthy tome, the Almanach de Gotha, otherwise known as the stud-book of Europe.

The entries for a 1930s edition make much less interesting reading than they would have in Moushaska's grandmother's time. We alluded to the fact, some chapters ago, that her parents had had some difficulty in marrying her off. Noble wolves of her rank are now few and far between.

Complicating the matter further is the fact that over the centuries, the relatively small pool of eligible furs capable of breeding has had certain deleterious effects. The Princess is familiar enough with the portraits of the last of the Spanish Habsburgs to draw the necessary, cautionary inferences.

The Almanach is being consulted with an eye toward likely objections to considerations of non-nobility. Such is not unprecedented. After all, the Archduke that came to an untimely end in Sarajevo had such a morganatic marriage, and it did not disqualify him from being an old fur's heir.

A lacquered claw runs down the list of her family in the principality. This is accompanied by a number of snorts, and some sotto voce comments on intelligence and manners. While she doesn't particularly like their personalities (one can choose one's friends and enemies, but not one's family), there is one pleasing fact: there are at least five wolves ahead of her, including her brother and his pups.

The book is laid aside, and a pack of cards picked up and idly shuffled with practiced motions. An evening session at one of the casinos is definitely in the plans for the night.

Thoughts of annoying roebucks are shoved aside as being of no importance, compared to the thrill and pleasure of cards.

And, perhaps, stealing away a rather handsome (and rich!) wolf.

*****

The catamount is initially puzzled by the actions of his superior, after the departure from the hotel. Numerous eating establishments have been passed by, though judging from the brief visit to a bank branch to cash a cheque, the feline is pretty sure there would be no issues in affording a hearty meal.

Still, there is a kitten-like confidence that sustains, even in the teeth of multiple adversities. If there is any brain that can resolve these matters, reasons Jake, it is Sergei Ivanovich's.

The steps take them to a familiar diner, one that was the setting for the previous meeting with Stanley Morgan. The roebuck's guess is correct: a familiar mane can be seen at the counter, poring over a menu. However, unlike the previous meeting, there seems to be a different bearing on the part of the stallion. Back is erect, and tail swishing firmly.

Seats are acquired, flanking the present guest.

"You are," observes the Great Organizer, "a fur of regular and tidy habits, one perceives. Which includes the washing of paws before meals." A menu is consulted, which muffles the comment out of the side of the mouth. "All the better to wash silver nitrate and assorted chemicals, no?"

A one-pound note is placed on the counter by the horse. "I think it's my turn to pay, isn't it, fellows?" Sidelong glance meets sidelong glance, and both meet baffled glance. Nevertheless, Jake knows the prospect of a free meal when he sees it, and raises no demur.

While the proprietor is hunched over a noisy and hissing grill, tactical considerations are discussed.

"If I am not intruding, Citizen, might one ask where the apparatus is?"

In point of fact, to the bafflement of the staff of the Mirror, the camera, and the notebook of the reporter, showed up in a neatly prepared cardboard box. The Constabulary is baffled, too: the box is bereft of useful paw-prints, and is plain and ordinary in every way.

Stanley Morgan, we should note, is an aficionado of those green-backed novels that relate the history of crimes, famous and infamous, real or imaginary.

"Citizen Morgan, I have considered your communication, and it moves me to ask the question as to whether you are familiar with the works of Cellini or Visari, for surely you would have thrived in the Italy of those days."

"Well, Sergei, those were interesting times. They were ruled by the Borgias and the Medici for centuries, and were constantly under the threat of war, disease, and famine. And what did they produce?"

"Some real good eats," chimes in the catamount, who has a high degree of respect for Italian cuisine.

The comment, while certainly true, is ruled out of order, and the previous matter moved.

"At the moment, I have placed the communication in a third set of paws, and am awaiting developments. I trust that you, in turn, trust me to take whatever action I see fit as soon as said developments emerge?"

"Sure. At least I can get something out of this whole mess."

"You speak of the other matter?" An answering nod. "Ah, then you have not heard the fresh developments?"

"Been busy keeping my mind on other things." For the first time, a largish portfolio, tied with string, is indicated on a nearby table. Paws are wiped. "Want to see?"

Recent events are pushed aside, as are plates, and a series of penciled, inked and watercoloured drawings are shown for inspection. Sage nods from the roebuck, and an appreciative whistle from the feline.

"Hey. Dat stuff's th' goods. Even a dope like our boss oughta see dat, ain't dat right, boss?"

The question has to be repeated, as a penciled drawing of a sable raises nostalgic memories in the mind of the Great Organizer, who can be heard to murmur the name of a large city.

"Hmm? Forgive me, Citizen Jake, my mind was elsewhere. Yes, yes, but of course there is the matter of presentation. One cannot simply waves these drawings in her face. Certain connections, you see, will be inferred, and the result is likely to be unpleasant for the conspirators."

The portfolio is tied, but nevertheless permission is sought for its borrowing.

"This is, Citizen, of potential use. I must consider, however, the proper avenue for bringing it to the attention of Citizeness Tush, not to mention timing."

Dessert is consumed in largely thoughtful silence, with the exception of one comment made by the stallion.

"If you want to keep that penciled drawing of the sable, Sergei, be my guest. Want me to sign it?"

The inside of the Great Organizer's ears turn as cherry-red as the pie he is consuming for a brief moment.

*****

Meanwhile, a much more formal luncheon is being had at an establishment whose decor does not run to Greek tourist posters. Phoebe Trotter is having lunch with her parents, who arrived that very morning for the imminently impending nuptials.

They had certainly expected the future son-in-law to be present, but he is mysteriously absent, and the strained silence which sympathetic questioning produces merits a wordless, puzzled exchange.

Mr. and Mrs. Trotter enjoy, it is to be noted, a loving and trusting relationship with their daughter, and are blessed with a certain level of diplomacy. In the matter of Stanley Morgan versus Henry von der Wald, no tears, no threats, no promises of reprisals were used. Merely patient discussion.

They were certainly pleased when the engagement was announced, and while the notion of grand-foals was, of course, off the table, this was seemingly a small price to be paid for the larger objective of a secure future for a beloved filly, in a rather less beloved decade.

The filly in question is in a quandary. Certainly, she could with complete truth relate the recent events, culminating in the infamous picnic. And yet, Phoebe Trotter does not use the weapon thrust into her paws, but rather thrusts it away. At some level, it occurs to her, this is not Playing the Game, and is likely to cause more injury and anguish than it will resolve.

Having put the matter into the small cervine paws of Sergei Ivanovich, she intends to see what the Great Organizer can come up with.

Mind set up, and anxious sigh unburdened, to the relief of all, wedding breakfast arrangements are broached.

*****

Jacob Nerzmann, as the owner-proprietor of the oldest and rather most exotic bookshop in the Spontoons, gets odd requests now and then. One tourist in recent months rather jokingly asked for a copy of The King in Yellow.

The fact that he was found, stark naked and jabbering crazily in the light of the next full moon surprised many furs, but not the elderly mink. It rarely does, he muses, to tempt Fate.

Thus the request from the neatly dressed and extraordinarily polite wolf mel, while somewhat unusual, at least does not raise worries of the supernatural.

"The Almanach de Gotha, sir? Yes, yes, of course. I am quite familiar with it, Mister...?"

"von der Wald. But you do not have a copy for sale?"

"You must understand, Herr von der Wald, these Islands, they are very egalitarian, and as such, there is little call for such a volume. I am afraid the nearest bookstore that might have it is either Honolulu, Manila or San Francisco, and unless you propose to be here for a while, I do not think I could order it for you and have you receive it."

"That is a shame, sir, but I thank you very much for explaining the matter to me."

"Excuse me, it's Mr. von der Wald, you say?"

Both mink and wolf turn, to find Chief Inspector Stagg peering out of a room.

"Ah. You will permit me, Inspector? Herr von der Wald, this is Inspektor Stagg, of our Constabulary. He lives here, you see." A warm smile. "He finds being surrounded by books congenial, an attitude I wholeheartedly agree with."

"My apologies, sir, for overhearing your conversation. While I do not have the Almanach, might I suggest, instead, The Statesfur's Yearbook? Herr Nerzmann obtained the latest edition for me, recently. Here it is."

A fedora is raised politely. "Quite gracious of you, Inspector Stagg. I see you are researching as well, judging from this book-mark."

"Quite. Recent events, you know."

"Ahem. Indeed."

"Tell me, Mr. von der Wald, is there any light you can shed on recent events? Do you know why Her Serene Highness has run into such a dramatic series of embarrassing events?"

"I could not say, Inspector. I emphasize that I am not pursuing the matter on the Lido."

"That is understood, sir. There seems to be a lot of that going about. Can you tell me anything about a roebuck, about five-five, habitually dressed in a white linen suit, rose in lapel, generally speaks with an Eastern European accent?"

"I have recently seen him around Shepherd's Hotel, Inspector. He is accompanied by a rather burly feline. I saw the two of them at the party on board the Princess' yacht."

"Did you notice anything suspicious on their parts?"

"The cat was generally standing still, rather stupidly. The roebuck was moving about in the train of a lady sow with whom I'm not familiar."

"Thank you, sir. Might I enquire what brings you to these islands?"

"Oh. I'm due to marry my fiancée, Miss Phoebe Trotter, in a few days. I believe it's been in the local papers."

"So it has, sir, so it has. I did manage to have the papers somewhat mute the events at Grass-bed Point."

"I am grateful for your discretion, Inspector."

"Still, please do not leave these Islands until I say so, Mr. von der Wald. There is something odd going on here that I wish to resolve."

"Errrr...of course, Inspector."

"You may, of course, return the book at your convenience. Drop it off with your card at any police station, to my attention."

"Thank you, Inspector."