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By Root 944 0

haughty in manner, was dressed in a beautifully cut summer-weight suit and a shirt with an ordinary soft collar and neck-tie. He had his straw hat in his hand as he prepared to climb into a car waiting at the kerb. Something must have caught his attention, because he was turned slightly, face-on to the camera. He looked vaguely familiar, although I had only seen the back of his head, so far as I knew. His eyes were dark and compelling, his mouth full, his hair sleek and black. And his left eye was elongated by a stripe of darker skin, a scar like the tail of a comet. Like the reappearing shape of the Children of Lights.

Holmes passed it over to Mycroft. “We need copies.”

“Certainly. Lofte, did you have anything else for us?”

“A few clippings about the church, but that's it.”

I shifted, and three pairs of eyes turned to me. Not that I wished to be greedy, however: “The Adlers have a child. Estelle. Did you come upon any birth record for her?”

Lofte's tired face sagged with remorse. “I was told to investigate the background of Damian Adler's wife, Yolanda, at all haste. I interpreted that to mean her background before their marriage. I did not pursue copies of their marriage certificate, or their current bank accounts, or the child's papers. I can get that information in a day, if you need it.”

“The only urgent piece of information we need is, did she have another child, after Dorothy Hayden in 1913 but before she married Damian?”

“I was working at speed and may have missed some details. To be honest, I don't know if I would have caught sight of another child, had there been one.”

“That's all right. Thank you.”

Mycroft rose. “We shall turn you free to sleep the sleep of the righteous. You have a room?”

“The Travellers' will have one.” He stood, a trifle stiffly, and shook hands all around. Mycroft led him to the door, but Holmes interrupted.

“Lofte?” The man turned to look back. “Altogether, a most impressive feat.”

The younger man's face was transformed by a sudden grin. “It was, wasn't it?” he said, and left.

When Mycroft came back, he was not carrying the photograph.

Third Birth: A man born once lives unaware of good and

evil. A man born twice sees good and evil, within and

without. Very few achieve a third birth: birth into divinity,

knowing that good and evil are not opposing forces, but

intertwining gifts that together make the burning heart of

Power. A third-born man is little less than the angels. A

third-born man is the image of God.

Testimony, III:8

MYCROFT CLEARED AWAY THE EMPTY PLATTER and the glasses, and returned with an antique-looking bottle and smaller glasses. Having cocoa and red wine already arguing in my stomach, I turned down his offer.

“I've been saving this for you to try,” Mycroft told his brother. “I'd have brought it out for Mr Lofte, but I judged that in his condition, strong drink might render him unconscious.” The two men sipped and made appreciative noises and traded opinions on districts and pre-war (pre-Boer war) vintages before my ostentatious glance at my wrist-watch returned us to the task at hand.

“I had two more telephone calls from Lestrade today,” Mycroft said. “On the first, he informed me that he had, in fact, put out arrest warrants for both of you. On the second, he asked if you had fled the country with Damian Adler.”

“Has Damian fled the country?” I asked.

“So far as I could determine, Lestrade's evidence consists of Scotland Yard's inability to find him. So, Sherlock, what have you found for us amongst the primitive monuments?”

Holmes pulled a travel-stained rucksack out from under his chair, undoing the buckle and upending its contents onto the low table: three large and lumpy manila envelopes, their ties securely fastened.

Mycroft went to his desk for a stack of white paper, while Holmes picked up the first envelope and undid the tie, pulling out six sealed standard-sized envelopes of varying lumpiness.

One by one he slit the ends, shaking the contents of each onto a fresh sheet of paper: sandy soil in one; a coin in the next; two burnt matches;