From the bedroom I listened to the sounds of gagging and retching. When the splash of the flush toilet had run its course, I took him a glass of water and helped him back to the bed. He dropped heavily down, his hands clutching his skull to keep the world from whirling.

“Sorry,” he said, slurring the sounds. “Sorry. He wouldn’t let me stop, and there’s only so much whisky you can spill on the floor. God, this is bad.” I saw his face change, and hurriedly shoved the shaving-bowl into his hands. A second glass of water was sipped more slowly, and stayed down. “Never seen him like this. Madman,” Nesbit muttered.

I took the description as hyperbole, and waited impatiently for him to tell me what we were going to do next. All plans of making a reconnaissance of the Old Fort had clearly shot out the window; by the time Nesbit was sober enough to walk, it would be light.

“Saw the magician again,” he said.

I straightened sharply. “Where?”

“In the . . . Where were we?” he said to himself. “The gun-room.”

“That horrible fur-lined room? Why?”

“Jimmy wanted to see his tricks. Clever man.”

“I know,” I said. “Did you say anything, accidentally?”

“No.” He spoke firmly, with absolute assurance, and I thought that this might be one drunk who retained a thin edge of control.

“Did he give you anything?”

“Who?” He raised his head, struggling to focus on my face. “Jimmy?”

“No, Hol—the magician,” I said, although we were speaking quietly.

The green eyes narrowed exaggeratedly in thought, and Nesbit started to pat his pockets, then looked around for some place to put the glass. I took it, and watched him search pockets with clumsy fingers until impatience got the better of me, and I dipped my own into breast and coat pockets until I encountered the tiny twist of paper, no bigger than an apple seed.

“Got it,” I told him. He blinked owlishly at the object, and I resigned myself to the fact that there would be no more help or even sense got out of the man tonight. Holmes’ skin dye would have to last another day. I pulled back the bedclothes and patted the pillow. “You go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Got things to do,” he declared, and prepared to rally his body’s mutinous forces to his side.

“Nesbit,” I said in a firm voice. “Geoffrey, there’s not a thing either of us can do tonight. Sleep it off. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He focussed on my face, inches from his, and then his eyes went soft, and after a minute he sagged sideways into the pillow and went limp. I pulled the bedclothes up to his shoulders and crossed the room, but at the door I heard his voice.

“Pig sticking. In the morning. Early.”

Damnation.