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atmospheres . . . Whitty throws
the newspaper forcefully to the floor. 'Surely it is obvious that the
writer has entered into partnership with a fraud, acting as his paid
shill.'

    'A
harsh conclusion, sir.'

    'I
am well acquainted with the writer. Any spirits Fraser might
encounter reside in a whisky bottle.'

    'Am
I to understand that you do not credit the piece?'

    'I
assure you, sir, that the writer would not know ectoplasm if he were
swimming in it.'

    'Precisely
the reply I had hoped for,' replies the American, giving Whitty's
knee a wet slap. 'I have come to the right party for the initiative I
propose!'

    Blast.
It is now obvious to Whitty that the scoundrel plotted their meeting
from the first: stalked him to the bath, drew him into conversation,
and now intends to harness him in some vanity project – trace
his royal ancestry, perhaps.

    At
the same time, there is always the possibility of remuneration.
Riding this train of thought, Whitty's momentary opportunism trumps
his instinct for idiocy. For the correspondent is nothing if not
paradoxical: a hypochondriac with a contempt for his own health; a
confirmed rationalist who is an avid consumer of every medicament on
the chemist's shelf; an elitist who favours the poor; a moralist with
a weakness for fallen women.

    Nonetheless,
he remains coy, if only for purposes of negotiation. 'Sir, in my
professional experience it is in the nature of hobby–horses
that they are best ridden alone. I advise you to pack up your
fascinating experience, your astonishing insight, your personal
crusade, escort it to the British Museum, and write your memoirs.
There is no virtue in pressing honest journalists in Turkish baths to
do your work for you.' 'I have offended you and am sorry for it. I
have come not to harm you, but to offer you a substantial profit. I
salute your integrity, sir. I admire any man who will turn down good
money out of personal principle. Say the word and I shall vacate the
premises immediately with sincere apologies, and trouble you no more
in this life.'

    Turn
down good money out of principle?

    'I
assure you, sir, I intend no such thing.'

    'Then
lend an ear to what I have to tell you, and what you have to gain.'

    'I
am a private investigator with the Pinkerton Group, employed by a
prominent American family, whose daughter succumbed to a complete cad
on the advice of Dr Gilbert Williams – also known as Professor
Herbert Zollner of Prague, and as Herr Schrenk–Notting of
Konnersreuth, Bavaria; who is in reality Bill Williams of Frankfort,
Kentucky, a vicious swindler who, for a substantial bribe, simulated
the blessing of a deceased aunt.

    'The
cad has been dealt with. Yet I have since trailed the villain over
two continents, to no avail.

    'Mr
Whitty, Americans were impressed by the Chokee Bill matter –
how you flushed out the Fiend in Human Form, brought an end to his
reign of terror and saved the lives of Heaven knows how many women.
Your exploits are the stuff of penny dreadfuls, whose authors have
profited more than you have, sir.'

    'I
am not in the novel business. I merely report events as they occur.'

    'You
did not report the news in this case, sir. You created the news. You
were the news.'

    'Perhaps,'
replies Whitty, growing wistful. So I did, then. So I was, then.

    'The
man of whom I speak, Dr Gilbert Williams, is in his own way a monster
in human form,' says the American, while rummaging in a briefcase,
from which he produces a square envelope of fine–quality
vellum.

    I
have in my hand an invitation, under the name of Henry Willows, to a
seance scheduled on Friday next. I obtained it through old Lord
Donlevy, who fears that his nephew, the Duke of Danbury, has become
enraptured – mesmerised if you will – by an unwholesome
cult. In fact, the seance is to occur at the family town–house
on Buckingham Gate.'

    Leaning
forward, the American speaks with fresh intensity: 'Attend the event,
sir, and expose this fraud to the public –