“I should like to be a detective.”

Pinkerton doesn’t look up, growls, “Operative.”

“Operative, then.”

Pinkerton snorts. “Don’t need more. Got plenty.”

“None such as I, sir.” Warne steps up to the edge of his desk. Pinkerton lifts his head and blinks at her. She waits.

“Have any experience?”

“No more than you did, sir, when you started.”

Pinkerton grins. “Militant?”

“Yes, sir, trade unions.”

“No law?”

“No, sir.”

“Why d’you think you’d make a good detective?”

Warne smiles. “There are places your operatives, barred by their sex, cannot go, and people they cannot befriend, and confidences they cannot win. I have a quick, native intellect, understand people well and am not without daring.”

Pinkerton leans back in his chair. “Let me think on it. Come back tomorrow, we may have something for you.”