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a seal of some kind.”
    “The Solomon Seal?” Adam asked.
    “So he believed. The possibility was enough to make him· drop everything and head across to St. Andrews University to see if anyone in the medieval history department could decipher it for him. The document turned out to be a promissory note for a bronze seal pledged in pawn to one Reuben Fennes of Perth, by somebody named James Graeme, dated 1381!”
    He directed an inquiring look at Adam, as if inviting comment, but Adam only shook his head.
    “This is all news to me,” he said. “I gather, by your expectation, that the Seal had been pawned for a substantial sum.”
    “I’ll say,” Peter replied. “It was practically a duke’s ransom. The figure cited was so extraordinary that Dad was keen to find out who this James Graeme might have been, and why the Seal should have been worth that much money to our distant forebear.”
    “And did he?”
    “That, I don’t know,” Peter said. “It was about that time, however, that he started seriously ferreting through all manner of medieval archives, not only in the U.K. but also on the Continent. It got to be quite an operation. I’m sure he must have used research assistants to help him sift through some of the documentary material. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
    “Oh, yes,” Rachel agreed. “There have been several dozen, over the years. He loved to involve his students in his work.”
    Adam smiled. “I can attest to that. Tell me, do you suppose you might be able to draw up a list for me?”
    “Dear me, you don’t think—”
    “Unfortunately, it’s far too soon to tell you what I think,” Adam said easily. “A list of people who know about the Seal is a good place to start, though. Peter, do you think you might be able to give your mother a hand?”
    Peter shook his head. “I don’t have any direct knowledge, Adam, but maybe Dad’s personal notes would give us some clues. They should be locked up in his desk at home, shouldn’t they, Mother?”
    Rachel’s face brightened. “Yes, of course,” she said. “And fortunately, the thieves didn’t tamper with the desk.”
    She might have said more, but at that moment, the injured man in the bed stirred and groaned aloud.

Chapter Three

    INSTANTLY ATTENTIVE, Adam and the others leaned in toward the bed. Nathan Fiennes stirred again. His bruised eyelids fluttered, then opened a painful chink, the gaze wandering unfocused.
    “Rachel?” he muttered hoarsely.
    Suppressing a small sob, his wife bent down and clasped his hand more closely. “I’m right here, Nathan. So is Peter. Larry’s going to be arriving shortly. And Adam—Adam Sinclair. You asked me to call him.”
    A crooked smile touched the injured man’s bluish lips. “All here,” he mumbled drowsily. “That’s good. Always nice when the boys come home for the holidays . . .”
    Rachel directed a wordless look of dismay toward Adam, who said softly, “This is not unexpected, I’m afraid. It’s very common in the case of head injuries for the patient’s memory to wander.”
    “Is there anything you can do to help him focus?” Peter asked. “He was so adamant that Mother call you.”
    Considering, Adam gave a cautious nod. “It’s just possible that he might respond to hypnosis, that he’s at least partially aware of his surroundings.”
    “Yes, but would it work in a case like this?” Peter wondered. “The surgeon says there’s been localized brain damage.”
    “Let me answer your question with yet another question,” Adam said. “Do you believe that your father has an immortal soul?”
    The query brought Peter up short. He gave a blink, then said, “Yes. Yes, I do.”
    “Then believe me,” said Adam, “when I tell you that the true seat of memory lies there, in the realm of the spirit, not in the perishable physiochemical structures of the brain.”
    Even as he spoke, the man in the bed heaved a heavy sigh.
    “Sure hope this flu passes off soon,” he