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house tonight."
    Doyle recounted the arrival of the letter and his decision to attend.
    "Right," said Sacker. "Not that you necessarily need me to tell you this, but you're in a bit of a fix."
    "Am I?"
    "Oh, I'd say so, yes."
    "How, exactly?"
    "Mm. Long story, that," the man said, more warning than excuse.
    "Have we time for it?"
    "Believe we're well clear for the moment," he said, parting the curtains for a brief look outside.
    "I'll ask some questions, then."
    "Better you didn't, really—"
    "No, better I do," said Doyle, pulling the pistol from his pocket and resting it on his knee.
    Sacker's smile broadened. "Right. Fire away."
    "Who are you?"
    "Professor. Cambridge. Antiquities."
    "Could I see some form of identification to that effect?"
    Sacker produced a calling card verifying the assertion. Looks authentic, thought Doyle. Not that that counted for much.
    "I'll keep this," said Doyle, pocketing the card.
    "Not at all."
    "Is this your carriage, Professor Sacker?"
    "It is."
    "Where are we going?"
    "Where would you like to go?"
    "Someplace safe."
    "Difficult."
    "Because you don't know, or because you don't wish to tell me?"
    "Because, as of this moment, there aren't all that many places you can truly consider safe: Doyle ... safe. Not much overlap there, I'm sorry to say." He smiled again.
    "You find that amusing."
    "To the contrary. Your situation is obviously quite grave."
    "My situation?"
    "Rather than worry, however, in the face of adversity it's
    always my inclination to take action. That's what one should do in any event. General principle. Take action."
    "Is that what we're doing now, Professor?"
    "Oh my, yes." Sacker grinned again.
    "I yield the floor," said Doyle darkly, his frustration with this cheerful enigma mitigated only by the man having twice within the hour saved his life.
    "Another drink first?" he asked, offering the flask again. Doyle shook his head. "I really would recommend it."
    Doyle took another drink. "Let's have it, then."
    "You've attempted to publish a work of fiction recently."
    "What's that got to do with any of this?"
    "I'm endeavoring to tell you." He smiled again.
    "The answer is yes."
    "Hmm. Rough business, the publishing game. Fairly discouraging, I imagine, but then you don't strike me as the easily discouraged sort. Perseverance, that's the ticket."
    Doyle bit his tongue and waited while Sacker took another nip.
    "You recently circulated a manuscript of yours for publication entitled—have I got this right?—The Dark Brotherhood'?"
    "Correct."
    "Without any notable success, I'm afraid—"
    "You don't need to rub salt in the wound."
    "Establishing the facts, old boy. Haven't read it myself. I'm given to understand your story deals at some length, as fiction, with what one might characterize as a ... thaumatur-gical conspiracy."
    "In part." How could he know that? thought Doyle.
    "A sort of sorcerers' cabal."
    "You're not far off—the villains of the piece, anyway."
    "A coven of evil masterminds colluding with some, shall we say, delinquent spirits."
    "It's an adventure story, isn't it?" said Doyle defensively.
    "With a supernatural bent."
    "Fair enough."
    "Good versus evil, that sort of thing."
    "The eternal struggle."
    "In other words, a potboiler."
    "I'd hoped my sights were set a bit higher," Doyle complained.
    "Don't listen to me, friend, I'm no critic. Are you published anywhere?"
    "A few stories," Doyle replied, with only modest exaggeration. "I'm a frequent contributor to a monthly periodical."
    "What would that be?"
    "It's for children, I'm sure you wouldn't know it."
    "Come on, what's it called?"
    "The Boy's Own Paper," said Doyle.
    "Right, never heard of it. Tell you what I think, though; nothing wrong with a bit of entertainment, is there? That's what people want in the end, after all, a little diversion, a ripping good tale, leave behind their troubles and woe."
    "Stimulate a little thought while you're at it," Doyle offered sheepishly.
    "And why not? Noble aspirations