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She paled, her fingers running over the poet's skin, examining the wounds, gauging their severity.

"The albino?" she gasped. "But this looks like the work of a wild animal! "

"How is he, Sister? He's been unconscious for some time."

"He's not unconscious, Captain Burton. He's asleep. He must be utterly exhausted."

Turning from Hampstead Road into Euston Road, the carriage stampeded on past velocipedes and steam-horses, between carts and hansoms, with pedestrians scattering as it thundered along, until, on Marylebone Road, the traffic became so thick that progress was slowed to a crawl.

Burton poked his head out of the window and shouted up to the driver, "Take to the back streets, man!"

The driver obeyed, and as Burton had hoped, the less direct route proved easier to navigate. Minutes later, the carriage drew up outside his home.

"Will you bring the dog?" he asked the nurse as he stepped out and lifted Swinburne. She nodded and scooped up Fidget.

After passing a handful of coins up to the driver, Burton carried his friend to the front door, opened it, and ascended the stairs to the second floor, where he deposited Swinburne in the spare bedroom. For the first time, he noticed that the poet was clutching something. It was a coat, which Burton pulled from his hands and flung into a wardrobe.

Sister Raghavendra, who'd followed him into the room, laid Fidget down and opened her carpet bag. She started to pull out vials, rolls of bandages, and other tools of her trade.

"I'll need a basin of hot water, Captain," she advised. "This is going to take some time. I've never seen so many cuts and bruises! The poor boy must have suffered terribly."

Algernon Swinburne opened his eyes. "I did," he muttered. "And it was glorious!"

It was nine o'clock in the evening and Swinburne was sitting up in bed, sipping at a cup of revitalising beef broth. Sir Richard Francis Burton had carried extra chairs into the room and in them, along with himself, sat Detective Inspector Trounce, who'd just arrived, and Sister Raghavendra. Mrs. Angell had permitted the young woman's unchaperoned attendance on account of her being a professional nurse and a member of the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence.

"Absolutely no show, I'm afraid," reported the Yard man, settling into his seat. "We simply couldn't get into the place; it was locked up like a fortress. The lights were blazing and we could see all manner of machinery sparking away inside but of a single man there was no sign. Lord knows what kind of glass they've used in the place; we battered at it with crowbars to absolutely no effect. As for the doors, I doubt even dynamite could shift them. I've posted men around the building, of course, but aside from that, what can I do? But see here, Captain Burton-I took it on faith that you had a good reason for the raid. Perhaps you might enlighten me now?"

"For that, Detective Inspector, we shall turn to my bedridden friend here. May I present Mr. Algernon Swinburne, the esteemed poet," said Burton, graciously.

"And follower of de Sade!" blurted Trounce.

Mrs. Angell, who was at the back of the room pouring cups of tea, cleared her throat.

"Oh, I say-I'm-er-" mumbled the detective.

Swinburne giggled and said, "Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector; and I assure you that despite my proclivity for the vices of the aforementioned gentleman-if gentleman is the appropriate word, which it almost certainly isn't-these wounds you see were neither self-inflicted nor delivered by request."

"Um-by Jove, that's a relief," responded Trounce, uncertainly.

"I think-" began Mrs. Angell, with a glance at the sister.

Burton held up his hand to stop her and interjected: "There are ladies present, gentlemen; let's not forget that. Now then, Algy, perhaps you can give us an account of your experiences?"

The little poet leaned back on his pillow-his hair luminescent against its whiteness-and closed his eyes. He commenced his tale with a description of his apprenticeship with Vincent Sneed then moved on to the events in