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Swinburne flung back the sheets and scrambled upright, standing on the bed in oversized pyjamas, bouncing slightly, twitching and jerking with excitement.

"Yes!" he cried. "Yes! I was nearly killed by that fiend! And do you know what I learned from the experience? I learned-"

He threw his arms out and nearly overbalanced. Everyone stood and moved to catch him but he recovered himself and proclaimed:

"How he that loves life overmuch shall die

The dog's death, utterly:

And he that much less loves it than he hates

All wrongdoing that is done

Anywhere always underneath the sun

Shall live a mightier life than time's or fate's."

His knees buckled and he fell against the wall, slowly sliding back down onto the bed.

"Goodness," he exclaimed weakly. "I think I stood up rather too quickly!"

Sister Raghavendra grabbed him by the shoulders, manoeuvred him back into the bed, and tucked the sheets around him.

"Foolish man!" she snapped. "You're too exhausted to go jumping around on a mattress, let alone chasing after mysterious Mr. Belljars. You'll stay put, sir, and you'll drink beef broth three times a day; isn't that right, Mrs. Angell?"

"Even if I have to sit on him and pour it down his throat," answered the old housekeeper.

"Richard! Am I to be a prisoner?" pleaded the young poet.

"For two days at least," confirmed his host. "We'll see how you are on Sunday. Sister, will you visit?"

"Certainly, Captain Burton. Mr. Swinburne is my patient; I will attend him daily until he is well."

"Bliss!" whispered Swinburne.

"And Captain," added the young nurse, "if there's any other way I can help, please don't hesitate to ask!"

Detective Inspector Trounce picked up his bowler and dusted a flake of soot from its brim. Mrs. Angell watched it float to the floor. She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

"I'll call again tomorrow, Captain," announced the Yard man, pacing to the door. "We'll go over our plans for Sunday night. But, I say, do you think this Mr. Belljar chappie is our jumping Jack?"

"I have no idea, Inspector," muttered Burton. "But I intend to find out!"

DM~KENING TOWER

I an opposed to the laying down of rules or conditions to be observed in the construction of mechanical devices lest the progress of improvement tomorrow might be embarrassed or shackled by recording or registering as law the prejudices and errors of those sentimental individuals who consider that there is a moral or ethical question inherent in oar technological advancement.

-ISAMBMun KiNGrDOm BRUNEL

arkening Towers well suited its name.

Lying a little beyond the village of Waterford, near Hertford, the estate was some forty or fifty acres in extent, and was entirely surrounded by a high wall of rotten grey stone. Within this crumbling barrier, the ground stretched unevenly, with large areas slumped into damp, pestilent hollows, as if being eaten away from beneath. These depressions were filled with a sluggishly writhing vapour that possessed a green-tinged luminescence, and over them decayed and contorted trees squatted blackly in the moonlight, casting weird shadows and making surreptitious movements. Upon the contaminated soil grass grew in fitful clumps and weeds, brambles, and tendrils twisted hither and thither as if their existence was an unavoidable agony.

In the middle of all this crouched the half-ruined mansion.

Built on the foundations of a Norman manor house, the glowering edifice was terribly dilapidated; its entire west wing had been ravaged by fire at some point and was nothing but a mildewed shell, while the habitable part of the mansion had sagged, opening fissures in its vine-clad, mouldering face.

The windows were pointed arches, and the big double door of the entrance was also set in an arch of the Gothic style. At the bottom of the steps leading up to this were two plinths upon which stone griffins sat, their once proud faces now dark with dirt and fungi, and in the shadow of one of these stood the poet, Algernon Swinburne.

Two days of rest had been all he required. Though his scratches weren't