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 ”Actually,” said Richard, “I’m looking for the marquis. And for a young lady named Door. I think they’re probably together.”
    The old man did a little jig, causing several feathers to detach themselves from his coat; this provoked a chorus of raucous disapproval from the various birds around them. “Information! Information!” he announced to the crowded room. “See? I told ‘em. Diversify, I said. _Diversify!_ You can’t sell rooks for the stewpot forever–anyway, they taste like boiled slipper. And they’re so stupid. Thick as custard. You ever eaten rook?” Richard shook his head. That was something he could be certain of, at any rate. “What’ll you give me?” asked Old Bailey.
    “Sorry?” said Richard, awkwardly leaping from ice floe to ice floe in the stream of the old man’s consciousness.
    “If’n I give ye your information. What’ll I get?”
    “I don’t have any money,” said Richard. “And I just gave my pen away.”
    He began to pull out the contents of Richard’s pockets. “There,” said Old Bailey. “That!”
    “My hankie?” asked Richard. It was not a particularly clean handkerchief; it had been a present from his Aunt Maude, on his last birthday. Old Bailey seized it and waved it above his head, happily.Jordan Flight Team Shoes
    “Never you fear, laddie,” he sang, triumphantly. “Your quest is at an end. Go down there, through that door. You can’t miss them. They’re auditioning.” He was pointing towards Harrods’ extensive network of Food Halls. A rook cawed maliciously. “None of your beak,” said Old Bailey, to the rook. And, to Richard, he said, “Thank’ee for the little flag.” He jigged around his stall, delighted, waving Richard’s handkerchief to and fro.
    _Auditioning?_ thought Richard. And then he smiled. It didn’t matter. His quest, as the mad old roof-man had put it, was at an end. He walked toward the Food Halls.