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Both the Doctor and Sam turned toTuval, who was still sitting in the chair.

The Zygon scientist looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded. 'It seems the perfect solution, Doctor. My only concern is that our two technologies will be incompatible.'

The Doctor wafted a hand dismissively. 'Oh, don't worry about that. I'll cobble something up. I'm quite good at that kind of thing.'

***

The first thing Litefoot did after discharging himself from hospital was to hail a carriage and return home.Though he felt bruised and battered both inside and out, he was determined to help the Doctor and Miss Samantha.

However he knew all too well how foolish it would be to rush headlong into danger without first procuring some means of defence.To avoid falling prey to his housekeeper's curiosity, he had informed the messenger who had been sent to fetch him a fresh set of clothes to explain that his previous attire had become so bespattered with unsavoury bodily fluids due to his gruesome work at the hospital that it had had to be incinerated. Upon arriving at Ranskill Gardens, he asked the cab driver to wait for him, then plodded wearily up the steps to his front door.

He was forced to knock because his keys, together with his pocket watch, pipe and other sundry items had been claimed by the unforgiving waters of the Thames. The instant she opened the door, Mrs Hudson recoiled as if slapped.

'Good heavens, sir, you looked whacked to the wide! You appear to have had quite a time of it.'

'Indeed I have, Mrs Hudson,' Litefoot murmured. 'Indeed I have.'

He entered the house, Mrs Hudson hovering concernedly by his shoulder.

'Can I rustle you up some hot broth, sir? Or some ham and eggs perhaps?

Pardon me for saying so, but you do look as though you need a good square meal inside you.'

The offer was almost unbearably tempting, but Litefoot forced himself to shake his head. 'I don't have time, I'm afraid, Mrs Hudson. Duty beckons. I have a cab waiting outside as we speak.'

She tutted and shook her head. 'It's criminal, the way they treat you at that hospital, sir, if you don't mind me saying so, expecting you to work all hours God sends. Then of course there's all these policemen coming to the door, wanting you to do this and that. A body can only take so much, sir, before it gives up the ghost for good.'

'I'm sure you're right, Mrs Hudson,' Litefoot said hastily. 'Nevertheless, I really do have a rather pressing matter to attend to. So if you'll excuse me...'

'Yes, sir, of course, sir. Far be it from me to tell you how to go about your business.' Muttering tetchily, she bustled away down the hall.

Only when he heard the kitchen door slam behind her, did Litefoot scuttle across to the door beneath the stairs that led to the cellar. He hurried through it, and reappeared moments later carrying a fearsome-looking weapon - a Chinese fowling piece, which his father had purchased in Peking many years before and handed down to him before their rift. It was a long-barrelled muzzle-loader, a cross between a rifle and a blunderbuss.

Ironically, the last time it had been fired in anger had been during the Weng-Chiang business five years before. The other Doctor had used it to dispose of one of a number of giant rats that had been roaming the sewers of London.

Carrying the gun, Litefoot crept to the front door and opened it cautiously.

However, he had to spin round, concealing the weapon behind him, as the kitchen door opened and Mrs Hudson reappeared.

'I was just wondering, sir, whether you would be in for supper,' she asked pointedly.

Litefoot's first instinct was to say he didn't know, but then he saw the look on her face.'You can count on it, Mrs Hudson,' he said.

Once she had returned to the kitchen, he fled as swiftly as his ravaged body would allow to the carriage that was still waiting for him, and after giving instructions to the driver to take him to Seers's factory, climbed inside.