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Penniforth looked bemused.

"It's not a comparison I'm keen on," explained the explorer.

"Ah. Competition?"

"Different ideas. I say, you enjoyed that brandy! Another?"

The cabbie looked in surprise at his empty glass. "I wouldn't say no, if it ain't an imposition, sir; I didn't notice that one go down the pipe!"

Burton handed over the decanter. "Here, help yourself. Tell me, Monty, how well do you know the East End?"

The big man looked up in surprise-and forgot to stop pouring the brandy until his glass was filled almost to the brim.

"Oofl" he gasped. "The Cauldron! I can look after meself but I wouldn't recommend it to no one but them what's tired o' life. I lives in Cheapside, what's in spittin' distance o' Whitechapel, so I knows the East End. I knows all o' London. It's me job."

"Have you heard anything about wolves in the area?"

Penniforth's face-a solid, clean-shaven, weather-beaten, and square affair, framed by curly brown hair-paled slightly.

"Aye, somethin' of the sort. It's said they're more men than wolves; monsters what have been comin' out after dark these weeks past. You ain't gonna ask me to go a-huntin' wiv you, I hope?"

"Just that."

Montague Penniforth swallowed his overfilled glass of brandy in a single gulp.

"Bloody 'ell," he gasped.

"You can refuse, of course," said Burton. "I know the Cauldron is dangerous enough even without monsters running around it, but one way or another I intend to go there tonight. I was hoping that you'd come with me, as you know your way around. I'll pay you generously."

Penniforth reached up and scratched his head through his thick curls.

"The thing is, sir, that you bein' a toff 'n' all-a-beggin' your pardin- it'll make you a target for every scallywag what sets eyes on you. An' in the East End, every bugger what sets eyes on you will be a scallywag!"

Burton stood up. "Wait here. Finish the brandy if you like. I'll be about fifteen minutes."

He strode across his study and disappeared through a door.

Penniforth refilled his glass and looked around. He'd never seen a room like this. It was crammed with books and weapons and pictures and charts and things he didn't even know the name of. He got to his feet and wandered around, examining the old flintlocks, the modern pistols, the curved knives, and the great variety of swords; it was the weapons that appealed to him most.

The cabbie had often exclaimed to his wife, "Ow the other 'alf live!" But this man Burton, he didn't seem to belong to the other half; he was one of a kind. He acted like a gentleman but he'd the face of a brute. He was of the "upper crust" but he spoke to the cabbie like they were equals. He was famous but he had no airs and graces. Strange!

The door leading to the stairs opened and a rough-looking oldster with a long white beard stepped in; an ex-seaman if his rolling gait was any indication.

"Hallo, Pa!" greeted Penniforth. "You lookin' for the master of the ouse?"

"Yus," croaked the new arrival, blinking beneath his beetling white eyebrows. "The beggar owes me three 'n' six an' I can't wait no longer!"

"Ho, he does, does he?"

"Yus. Where is 'e, the rat?"

Penniforth laid down his glass and pushed out his chest. "'Ere now, you'd better watch your tongue, Mister!"

"My tongue, is it?" wheezed the old man. "What yet gonna do abaht it, ay?"

"For a start, me of mucker," growled Penniforth, "I'll pick you up by the collar of that two-'undred-year-old coat o' yours, an' by the seat of them scabby-lookin' pants, an' I'll throw you out o' this 'ouse right into the gutter, make no mistake!"

"Oh yet will, will yet!"

"Yes I blinkin' well will!"

The oldster let loose a bark of laughter and suddenly grew much taller and a lot wider.

"There'll be no need for that, my good fellow!" came Sir Richard Francis Burton's voice.

Montague Penniforth staggered backward. "My sainted aunt!" he cried. "It's that African )u-)u!"

"No, Monty, it's a white wig, powder in my beard, a little stage makeup to cover the scars, some old clothes, and a spot of playacting!" said the old man, who suddenly