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eyes sunk in wrinkled sockets.

    'It is still a forgery,' Emerson said stubbornly. 'More ingenious than I had believed, but a forgery nonetheless.'

    'Forgive me, Emerson, but you are missing the point,' I said. Emerson turned an indignant look upon me, but I went on. 'Let us assume that the message is indeed from Mr Willoughby

    Forth, and that he has been held prisoner, or otherwise detained, all these years. Let us also assume that some daring couple - er - that is to say, some daring adventurer - were willing to go to his aid. Where would that adventurer go? A man asking for help ought at least give directions.'

    'I,' said my husband, 'was about to make that very point, Amelia.'

    The old man grinned. "There is something else in the envelope, Professor. Take it out, if you please."

    The second enclosure was more prosaic than the first - a single sheet of ordinary writing paper, folded several times - but its effect on Emerson was remarkable. He stood staring at it with as much consternation as if it had been a death threat (a form of correspondence, I might add, with which he was not unfamiliar). I jumped up and took the paper from his hand. It was grey with age and dust, tattered with much handling, and covered with writing in the English language. The handwriting was as familiar to me as my own.

    'It looks like a page from one of your notebooks, Emerson,' I exclaimed. 'How on earth did this come into your hands, Lord Blacktower?'

    'The envelope and its contents were left on the doorstep of my house in Berkeley Square. My butler admitted he had half a mind to pitch it into the trash. Fortunately he did not.'

    'It didn't come through the post,' Emerson muttered, inspecting the envelope. 'So it must have been delivered by hand. By whom? Why didn't the messenger identify himself and claim a reward?'

    'I don't know and I don't care," the old man said irritably. 'The handwriting on the envelope is my son's. So is the writing on the papyrus. What more proof do you want?'

    'Anyone who knew your son, and had received a letter from him, could imitate his handwriting,' I said gently but firmly. 'To my mind, the page from my husband's notebook is a far more intriguing clue. But I don't understand what bearing it has on Mr Forth's disappearance.'

    'Turn it over,' said Lord Blacktower.

    I did as he directed. At first glance the faded lines appeared to be random scribbles, like those made by a small child. From Lord Blacktower's throat came a horrible grating sound. I presumed it was a laugh.

    'Are you beginning to remember, Professor Emerson? Was it you or my son who sketched the map?'

    'Map?' I repeated, studying the scrawl more closely.

    'I remember the occasion,' Emerson said slowly. 'And under the present circumstances - taking into consideration the suffering of a bereaved father - I will make an exception to my general policy of refusing to answer impertinent questions from strangers.' I made a little sound of protest, for Emerson's tone of voice - especially when he mentioned the suffering of a bereaved father - made the speech even ruder than the words themselves convey. Blacktower only grinned.

    'This is not a map,' Emerson said. 'It is a fantasy - a fiction. It can have no possible bearing on your son's fate. Someone is playing a cruel trick on you, Lord Blacktower, or is planning to perpetrate a fraud.'

    'That is precisely what I told my grandfather, Professor,' Mr Forthright exclaimed.

    'Don't be a fool,' Blacktower snarled. 'I couldn't be deceived by an impostor - '

    'Don't be so sure,' Emerson interrupted. 'I saw Slatin Pasha in '95, after he had escaped from eleven years' starvation and torture by the Khalifa. I didn't recognise him. His own mother wouldn't have known him. However, that wasn't the kind of fraud I had in mind. How much were you prepared to offer me to equip and undertake a rescue expedition?'

    'But you refused to be bribed, Professor.'

    'I refused, period,' Emerson said. 'Oh, the devil