Mr. William Matthews stood before Tracey and Mittie, his bushy mustache quivering with rage, and his eyes sharply darting between the two. "Well?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry Mr. Matthews, but you must explain your coming here?" Tracey replied. "How did you find where I live?"

"You should have thought of this kind of repercussion when you stole Remington's Keeper book." He huffed. Mr. Mathews marched into the foyer and proceeded to rifle through a nearby bookcase, carefully placing books onto the mantle place as he quickly flipped through its pages.

"I did not steal anything," Tracey indignantly said as she picked up the displaced books and returned them to the shelves. "And I would hardly think you would find his book in this fashion."

"So you do have it?"

"W..wha—," Tracey stammered, carefully keeping her gaze from the side table where she had earlier placed it.

"Don't you know what it looks like?" Mittie said, venturing into the room.

"Of course I don't!" he exclaimed. "He's never shown it to me." Mr. Matthews moved his search to the neighboring bookshelf, this time carelessly tossing books aside as he looked.

"Mr. Matthews," Tracey said, quickly stepping to his side. "Mr. Porter may be a friend of yours, but I've only just met you yesterday! As far as I see it, you're an intruder, coming to my home and ransacking it unannounced."

"You did let yourself in kinda forcefully...," Mittie quietly added.

"If you knew the importance of a keeper book, you'd understand," he replied, moving to the next shelf.

"And why are you so convinced that I have it?" Tracey retorted.

Mr. Matthews ignored her.

"Mr. Matthews," Tracey evenly said. "I've had a long night and seeing that you will not cooperate, I have no choice but to call the constables."

Mr. Matthews paused, shooting a sharp gaze towards her.

"Wait a minute, Trace," Mittie said in alarm.

"You've somehow located where I live, barged into my home, and proceeded to search for a book that I may or may not have," Tracey listed. "I'm sure the High Constable would enjoy this case of stalking."

Mr. Matthews held Tracey's gaze for a few moments, before sighing in defeat. Internally, Tracey let out her own sigh of relief. "I apologize for the abruptness of my arrival, Ms. Higgenbottom," he said as he straightened his suit. "You must understand the circumstances of this situation."

"And that would be?" Tracey asked, raising an eyebrow.

"May I have a seat?"

"Have you not already?" she dryly replied. "Here," she continued, pointing to a modest stool. Mr. Matthews hesitated, his eyes darting to one of the plusher seats. "Mittie, why don't you join us?"

Hesitantly, Mittie entered the room. "Are you sure? Because it seems a bit tense in here..."

"No, no it's quite alright," Mr. Matthews sighed, perching onto the stool. He frowned as he settled on the wooden seat, then cleared his throat. "Again, I do apologize for barging in here so abruptly. You must be wondering why I'm here," he said as Tracey and Mittie settled into their respective seats.

"Moreso why you need this book so much?" Mittie replied.

"So you do have it?" Mr. Matthews boomed, eagerly leaning forward.

Mittie glanced to Tracey, who returned the look with a small shake of her head.

"You must understand!" Mr. Matthews said, "I should have known something was wrong when you asked about the letter."

"The letter?" Tracey blinked. She thought back to the previous days.

"You had asked about Mr. Porter contacting me!"

"Oh!" Tracey said. "Oh, yes. That I did."

"There was a lot that happened since we went to the bank," Mittie said with a shrug.

"What about the letter?" Tracey asked, leaning forward.

"Well, I did find it." Mr. Matthews shifted in his seat as if he made a ground-breaking revelation.

Tracey and Mittie stirred in uncertainty.

"And?" Tracey finally said.

"And I found that he sent the letter to me with motor-mail!" he said, his emphasis on the final words almost at a roar.

"What's wrong with motor-mail?" Mittie asked before Tracey could bump her foot in warning.

Mr. Mathews whipped around to face Mittie, his eyes ablaze. "What's wrong with motor-mail?" he spat. "I'll tell you what's wrong with motor-mail! Those nefarious abominations are a threat to the very existence of good, well-cultured letters! Real letters, miss, not these excuses of paper that comes through those atrocious pip—."

"Mr. Matthews is not a fan of steam technology," Tracey interrupted.

"I see..." Mittie said with a slow nod, casting a surreptitious glance to Tracey's motor-mail receiver in the other corner of the room.

"Don't you see?" he continued. "Remington would never send me letters through motor-mail! I should have known something was strange when he sent you in his place for our weekly meetings."

"Weekly meetings?" Tracey asked, frowning. She would have remembered if Mr. Porter had meetings with anyone, considering she made his schedules for him. She squinted. "What meetings?"

"Our Keeper Association meetings, of...," Mr. Matthews trailed off. "I've said too much. Please," he said, rising from the stool with a grimace, "I need the book, Ms. Higgenbottom."

"Does this book have anything to do with these...meetings?" Tracey asked, her suspicions rising.

Mr. Matthews paused, his jaw clenched. "The book, Ms. Higgenbottom."

"We never said we had it," Mittie said with a nonchalant shrug.

"This book seems rather important to you," Tracey said. She tilted her head and squinted at him. Mr. Matthews seemed to shrink under her gaze. "And thus far, you've been avoiding answering our question. Why do you need this book?"

He frowned, then, once more, sighed in defeat. "The Keeper Association," he quietly (or rather, as quietly as his booming voice allowed) said. "That book contains important information on the Keeper Association."

"And what is this 'Keeper Association'?"

At the mention of those words, Mr. Matthews flinched and cast a glare at Tracey. "I've already told you too much," he growled. "Remington was supposed to have given me that book in our last meeting. It was a very important meeting as this would be the first time I would get my hands on his keeper book. I thought that when he sent you in his place that you would have brought the book. But you didn't." Mr. Matthew shook his head. "I really should have known something was wrong. I'm sorry I wasted your time. I'll see myself out."

"Wait," Tracey said as she jumped from her seat. "Why did you give me that document on Mrs. Pinot?"

Mr. Matthews hesitated. "That's what Remington told me to give you..."

"In that letter?"

"...yes."

"But we know now that wasn't Mr. Porter," Mittie chimed in, her eyebrows furrowed.

"...yes," he said, more perplexed.

"I wonder who it could have been...," Tracey said. She shook herself, whisking past Mr. Matthews into the foyer. "We'll evaluate that later," she said squinting out of the window. "It appears it's still raining. Would you like an umbrella? I'm afraid they're steam-powered, however."

Tracey cringed, waiting for his booming response.

"Mr. Matthews?" she said, turning around.

Much to Tracey's bewilderment, she saw Mittie desperately to the other side of the room. Tracey moved her gaze in the direction of Mittie's pointing. There was Mr. Matthews standing by her motor-mail, his face expressionless.

"O-oh, I do apologize for that!" she exclaimed, rushing over. "I know how you feel about steam technology—."

"Ms. Higgenbottom, do you know who sent this?" Mr. Matthews interrupted.

Tracey noticed a familiar brown sachet. On it was unusually small text, reading 'rip here'.

"Say, isn't that combustible...," Mittie started. She stopped, glancing at Mr. Matthews.

"Where did you get this?" Tracey quietly asked, taking the envelope from him.

"Where else but from this confounded junk of technology?" he spat. "I ask you again Ms. Higgenbottom, do you know who sent this? There's no return. Of course," he added with a disgruntled mutter, "real mail would never have this sort of problem."

"I don't know who sent this," Tracey said, "but whoever did is the same person who sent me to you."

"Really?" he boomed.

"We had gotten one a' those sachets a couple o' days ago," Mittie said, walking over to look closer at the sachet. "Believe it said something like: talk to William Matthews for more information on your 'precious Porter'."

"What?" he boomed, louder yet. "Is that what they sent you? I have no information on Remington! In fact, this is the same sort of envelope that Mr. Porter supposedly sent me his letter in!"

"You didn't notice anything...strange with the paper?" Tracey asked.

"Of course not! He always types his letters," he replied. "And unlike this one, it had a return. To his shop. Which is why I saw nothing out of the ordinary."

"So the paper didn't...?" Mittie slowly said.

"...didn't what?"

"...you know...," Mittie said, miming out a plume of clouds.

Mr. Matthews stared inquisitively.

"Did it combust?" she finally said with a frustrated sigh.

"Why would it?" he said, his eyebrows furrowing. "Have yours?"

"That's not important," Tracey quickly said.

"If yours have, you may want to check Shrimp Reginald."

"Thank you, Mr. Matthews," Tracey said, ushering him out to the foyer, "we're actually quite busy, I hope that we answered your questions, and...," Tracey paused, her hand on the doorknob. "did you say Shrimp Reginald?"

"Yes, that's where you can buy the stuff, combustible paper."

"How do you know that?"

"I know many things, Ms. Higgenbottom."

"How many things does that restaurant have?" Mittie exclaimed. "A funhouse, and now illegal goods?"

"Funhouse?" he repeated in surprise. The foyer shook with his laughter. "Is that what you think it is?"

"What...what's the funhouse? I thought it was a funhouse?" Tracey asked.

"Oh, it may look like a funhouse, but I assure you that if you know where you're going in that place, you can find The Marketplace."

"The Marketplace?" Mittie and Tracey echoed.

"You can find anything you need there," he said with a nod. "Even...steam technology." Mr. Matthews said the final words with a shudder.

"How would we get into The Marketplace?" Tracey asked.

"Just ask Reggie for...," Mr. Matthews paused, glancing out the door. His voice lowered to a whisper (or, rather, a rumble), "...'The Mirrored Funhouse'."

"Reggie?" Mittie repeated, perking up.

"Do you know him?"

"N-no, just happens to be my beau's nickname."

"I see."

"So we ask for 'Mirrored Funhouse' then—," Tracey started.

"The Mirrored Funhouse," he corrected. "Very important."

"Right," Tracey said, nodding.

"Now!" Mr. Matthews said with a flourish, gently moving Tracey's hand off the door and opening it himself. "I came here for information and ended up revealing everything myself! My lunch break is almost up, so I must return to the bank."

"This is how you spend your lunches?" Mittie exclaimed in bewilderment.

"If you have the book, please be certain to keep it away from prying hands," he said as he leveled a glare at the two of them, ignoring the remark. "I hope to see you soon."

With that, Mr. Matthews stormed off into the rain, seemingly unbothered by the wind, rain, and occasional lighting brewing around him.

Tracey turned to Mittie, propping the door open. "Well," she finally said.

"Look's like we were on the right track," Mittie said with a shrug. "Guess we should really head out now?"

"Yes," Tracey said, reaching in and taking her coat from the coat rack. Mittie grabbed some umbrellas. In short order, the two ladies were once again off to The Undertown.