When Lewis rapped on the front door of Isabella's townhouse, he braced himself for the customary chilly reception from Miss Lydia, as had been his experience six years prior. Instead, he found the woman's face wearing an expression that suggested she'd seen something frightful indeed. 

     In an instant, all thoughts of his confiscated property vanished in the wake of Lydia's consternation.

     "What has happened?" Lewis inquired, trailing Lydia past uniformed constables in the hallway and into a room where a detective questioned a tear-streaked maid. 

     "Lady Brouwer says you were with the boy when he was taken. Can you describe the man for us?" the detective asked.

     A sinking sensation settled in Lewis's stomach as he listened to the maid recount the tale of a child's abduction. He couldn't help but assume that the boy was either Lydia's or Isabella's progeny, and the thought of Isabella having a child that wasn't his own left him feeling strangely hollow.

     "The man had a bushy red beard, but the hair on his head was as dark as a raven's wing," the maid explained before another somber woman led her away.

     As Lewis sidled up to the sketch artist, a jolt of recognition struck him upon seeing the finished drawing. "I saw a homeless man fitting that description outside my office building the day Lady Brouwer paid her visit," he revealed to Miss Lydia, who gasped in shock. 

     "The next day, the guards found him loitering and ejected him for trespassing. He must have been stalking Isabella." Lewis added. 

     Having relayed his information to the detectives, Lewis and Lydia climbed the stairs to one of the private rooms. As they reached the door, a nagging question gnawed at the back of Lewis's mind. 

     Sensing his thoughts, Lydia spoke before he could voice his query. "He's not mine. He's Isabella's son," she said tersely, leaving him to stand alone outside Isabella's room.

     Upon entering her sanctuary, Lewis saw Isabella seated by the window, an empty chair her only companion. He quietly closed the door, traversed the quaint room, and took the seat opposite Isabella, reaching for her hand.  

     To his surprise, she didn't pull away. The weight of her tears was apparent in the dark circles beneath her eyes.

     Next to her lay a sheet of paper bearing the likeness of a young lad.  Lewis released her hand to retrieve the sketch. As he studied the face, Isabella spoke, her gaze tethered to the window. "By the first light of day, he'll have whisked my boy across the border," she murmured, her voice laced with fear and desperation. 

     Turning towards him, she continued, "Twenty-two hours. It's been twenty-two hours since my boy was taken from me."

     Lewis considered the sketch in his hand for a moment. "I have a notion. I believe I can expedite the search for him," he declared, determination embroidering his voice. Isabella regarded him, her eyes wide and searching. 

    "How?" she asked.

     "I'll need to know the whereabouts of my equipment," Lewis replied, his mind already awhirl with possibilities.