"Are the family lists complete yet?" he asked George. "Aye, my lord. We've gathered the names of every possible successful runner for the last forty years. Not many men, I'll tell you that. Six at most, and all were thought to be very much dead. Four apparently lost to fire-you remember the blaze that leveled the tavern in '33-one to drowning, and one bloke to, ah, wolves." Kit raised his brows. "Wolves?" "That's what his son said. Stirling Jacobs was his name. Liked to hunt at dawn. Liked a challenge. Known to venture out beyond our boundaries. Bones were found, possibly his. That's all." "How old would this man be now?" "Let's see...nearing eighty, I'd say." Kit gazed at him over the mess of china and papers. "Your instructions were to consider ." George shifted in the chair, uneasy. "And I've bloody well considered everyone." -Kit & George"