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'Does he?' said Litefoot, evidently flattered.

The 'Weng-Chiang business', as the young man had termed it, had taken place some five years previously, though Litefoot still recalled it as though it were yesterday. It had been a relatively brief but extraordinary affair. He, together with the Doctor, the Doctor's charming but equally perplexing companion, Leela, and a local theatre owner, Henry Gordon Jago, had become involved in the evil machinations of a masked criminal named Magnus Greel, who was passing himself off as an ancient Chinese god known as Weng-Chiang. The Doctor had described Greel as a'foe from the future', and, though even now the idea seemed preposterous, Litefoot had seen enough evidence to believe that what the Doctor had told him might very well have been the truth.

As for the Doctor, he had been, in his own way, just as mysterious a character as Greet himself. Dear Henry, who had since become a firm friend, had described him as a super-sleuth who was held in the highest esteem at Scotland Yard. However, although as a police pathologist Litefoot had many significant contacts within the force, subsequent inquiries had unearthed no information whatsoever about the fellow. If the police did know of his existence they were keeping very quiet about it.The last Litefoot had seen of the Doctor and Leela was when they had stepped into a tall blue box which had emitted an appalling bellowing sound before vanishing into thin air!

'What's the Weng-Chiang business?' Sam asked now.

'I'll explain later,' the Doctor said.

'I'll hold you to that.'

'I know.'

The Doctor turned back to Litefoot. 'Tell me, Professor, how's Mr Jago?'

Litefoot smiled. With his grey hair and moustache, beaky nose and twinkling eyes, Sam thought that he resembled a kindly uncle. 'Actually, he's been rather dyspeptic of late. I prescribed him a tonic and a healthy dose of sea air. He's currently spending a few weeks with his sister in Brighton. But Henry's an old war horse. He'll bounce back. Outlive the lot of us, I'll wager.'

'I dare say,' the Doctor murmured.

'But if you'll permit me, sir, I have a number of questions that I would rather like to ask you.'

'People always do,' said the Doctor.

Litefoot gave him a quizzical look. 'Quite,' he said and took another sip of brandy.Then he admitted,'Although to be frank, sir, it's hard to know where to begin. When the Doctor... disappeared, he left so many questions unanswered, so much unexplained.'

'Yeah, he's like that,' Sam put in, relishing the moment. 'Untidy. Forgetful.

Thoughtless. Downright annoying sometimes.'

Litefoot chuckled.'Do you know, he once drew a map on my best linen tablecloth. Dashed impudent. Ingenious, though.' He stared into the fire as though lost in his own thoughts for a moment, and then said,'Perhaps the best place to begin would be if you, sir, were to explain how you and our mutual friend, the Doctor, happen to be acquainted.'

The Doctor steepled his fingers to his lips. After a moment he murmured,

'He and I are in the same line of business. We're... partners, you might say.'

'Indeed? And what, may I ask, might that line of business be?'

'We're investigators. Of a sort.We attempt to keep events on the right path.'

'Me too,' said Sam, and pointed at the Doctor. 'I work with him.

Indispensable sidekick. He'd probably have snuffed it more than once if it wasn't for me.'

Litefoot looked at her dubiously. 'You are employed by the police then, I take it?'

'Not if we can help it,' said the Doctor.

'I see,' said Litefoot wearily,'or rather, I don't.'

He took a sip of his brandy. The Doctor watched him do so with genuine affection. Litefoot must be almost sixty now, and though he had a few more wrinkles and a slightly wider girth than the last time they had met, he was still basically the same old Litefoot. Despite his gentlemanly appearance and rather formal behaviour, by Victorian standards he was actually something