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turned the much smaller man around, expertly searched him, straightened up and smiled.
    â€œShall I do the others here, too, sir?”
    H.G. turned on his heel and strode into the library, where his friends waited. They were quiet now, having overheard the detectives, and they all watched H.G. as he tried to find words that would make him appear dignified instead of humiliated. The only thing that came to his mind was to speak quietly.
    He repeated what Inspector Adams had told him, then politely asked his friends to leave.
    â€œYou must understand that this comes as a great embarrassment to me, personally,” he said, his hands strangely clasped behind his back. “Furthermore,” whispered H.G., “I implore all of you to keep this evening’s remarkable revelations to yourselves. I must test the device before its existence is made known to the world.”

    The guests murmured—some speculative, some serious. But they left the library agreed that no outside words would be uttered about H. G. Wells’s claim that he had constructed an operational time machine.
    And so they queued up at the front door, where Mrs. Nelson delicately (the police had humbled her considerably) handed the guests their coats and hats. Then Duggan spread their legs and searched them one by one. As only true British gentlemen could, they totally ignored the detective and accepted the frisk as if it were just another part of the evening. After all, what was a mere murder and a trifling personal indignity compared to a time machine?
    When they all had left, H.G. felt more sad than angry. For months he had dreamed of announcing his discovery to a small—if not critical and influential—circle of friends. Who would have thought that the police would interrupt such a gathering? He shrugged with resignation, which was far from his usual militant stance. He could only thank God that at least they had come at the end of the evening as opposed to the beginning or middle.
    In the library, he poured himself the last of the claret, then sat in his favorite chair close to the fire. He stretched his legs out and stifled a yawn. It felt good to relax after standing and talking all night. His mind drifted, but before he could think of something pleasant, Mrs. Nelson came into the room. She carried a tray that held a pot covered with a cozy, milk, sugar and a cup. When she saw him still drinking wine she frowned.
    â€œI thought you might want some tea while you waited for the police to finish.”
    He started to reply, but heard noises from upstairs. Adams and Duggan were now going through his bedroom. He scowled.
    â€œDamn them! Do you think they’d be here if I hadn’t published those articles on free love?”

    â€œWe’re not the only household they’re having a look in, sir.” She set the tray down on the table with a bang. Free love, indeed!
    â€œI wonder.” He took a sip of wine, then smiled at her. He played with the ends of his mustache—a sign that he was about to say something at which Mrs. Nelson would take offense. “The next time you go to church, pray for a socialist state, will you?”
    Before Mrs. Nelson could tell Wells in no uncertain terms that his salvation was in serious question, Inspector Adams appeared in the doorway, hat sarcastically in hand. He raised his eyebrows slightly.
    â€œWe’re sorry to have disturbed you, sir.”
    H.G. slowly rose from the chair, took a deep breath and straightened to his full five feet seven inches. “You’ve more than disturbed me, Inspector, you’ve desecrated my fundamental human rights!”
    â€œWe’ll be going, then.” Adams executed a slight bow and headed for the hallway.
    â€œJust what the devil did you expect to find, Inspector?”
    Adams turned and replied, “Jack the Ripper.”
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    Stunned, Wells sank back into his chair. Jack the Ripper? That maniac hadn’t been