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As he spoke, he enthralled them with his choice of words and intonation, and, for the first time, Burton realised that his friend truly did possess an astonishing talent, and had the potential to be counted a literary giant if only he could remain sober for long enough to achieve it.

After Swinburne finished, there was a long silence, which was finally broken by Trounce.

"Phew!" he gasped. "They must be maniacs!"

"Triply so," noted Burton. "In the first place, they're meddling with the natural order of things; in the second, the results of their experiments will be a hopelessly tangled mix of interrelated consequences, which surely defeats the point; and in the third, even if they could separate the fruits of their endeavours, they wouldn't have anything to measure until many generations from now, by which time the experimenters themselves will be long dead. It makes no sense."

"I told Darwin as much," Swinburne informed them, "yet he seemed confident enough. He said time was the key and was just about to tell me more when Oliphant arrived and stopped him."

"Time," pondered Burton. "Interesting. It occurred to me that, in the case of Spring Heeled Jack, time also seems to be a key-if not the keyelement."

"And you told me Oliphant repeated almost word for word something that Jack had earlier said to you," put in Trounce.

"Yes. It's puzzling. Very puzzling indeed."

"I can have a warrant put out for Charles Darwin's arrest on grounds of abduction, illegal medical experiments, and probably murder," said Trounce. "Which will no doubt delight what remains of the Church. Nurse Nightingale needs to be rounded up and questioned, too, for she certainly seems to be in the thick of it. Laurence Oliphant can be charged with the murder of little Billy Tupper. He'll dangle by the neck, I don't doubt. But as far as Isambard Kingdom Brunel is concerned, I can't arrest a man-if he is a man-for inventing machines and remaining alive after everyone thinks him dead! "

"I say," piped Swinburne. "Where's the coat? I picked up Oliphant's coat. Where is it?"

"Here," said Burton, rising and stepping to the wardrobe. He withdrew the item of clothing, which was still damp from the rain.

"I thought he might have a pocket book or something."

"Good lad!" exclaimed Trounce.

"Auguste Dupin!" Swinburne smiled, though the reference was lost on the Yard man.

Burton went through the garment. He found a silver pocket watch, a silk handkerchief, a packet of cigarettes which smelled faintly of opium, a set of peculiar items which Trounce identified as lock-picks, a key chain with four keys upon it, a pencil, and, to Swinburne's delight, a small notebook.

Leafing through the pages, they found recorded all twenty-eight abductions plus the names and ages of each of the chimney sweeps. Disappointingly, this was information that the Beetle had already provided.

Various appointments that had already occurred were noted, though only the dates were given, nothing about the venue or attendees. Indecipherable markings accompanied these entries but Burton, the expert linguist, could see at a glance that they'd be impossible to decode.

There were no future assignations marked.

He sighed. "It was an excellent try, Algy, but no luck, I'm afraid."

"Blast it!" muttered the poet.

"Excuse me, sir," interrupted Mrs. Angell. "There's the hat, too."

"The hat? What hat?"

"The one that horrible albino creature left behind him after jumping through your window. I put it on the stand downstairs. Shall I fetch it?"

"Well done, Mrs. Angell! But you stay put-I'll get it."

He left the room and they heard his footsteps descending.

Mrs. Angell distributed cups of hot sweet tea.

Sister Raghavendra plumped Swinburne's pillow.

He sighed with delight.

Detective Inspector Trounce reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, glanced at the ladies, and pushed it back in again.

Burton returned.

"I could kiss you, Mrs. Angell. I found this in the hat's inner lining."

He held a small square of paper