"The girl fetched a candle from the cottage and handed it to the waiting figure. As she did so, it threw back its cloak to reveal itself as Spring Heeled Jack. Grabbing her, it tore her dress down to her waist before she managed to break free and run back along the path. Jack followed and caught her at the threshold of the front door. He was pulling her hair and yanking at her slip when her younger sister entered the hallway, witnessed the scene, and let out a loud scream of terror. At this, the older sister came running and managed to drag Jane from the thing's grasp. She pushed him back and slammed the front door in his face. The apparition then bounded away and vanished into the night."

There came a knock at the door.

"Come!" cried Trounce.

A short white-haired woman shuffled in bearing a tray.

"Coffee, sir,"

"Thank you, Gladys."

The woman padded over to the desk and laid down the tray. She poured two cups and silently withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Burton flicked his cigar stub into the hearth.

"Milk?" asked Trounce.

"No. Just sugar." The famous explorer shovelled four teaspoonfuls into the steaming liquid.

"By Jove!" blurted Trounce. "You have a sweet tooth!"

"A taste I picked up in Arabia. So what happened next?"

"Jane subsequently gave the most complete description of Spring Heeled Jack we have on record and, I can confirm, it matches yours in every respect, even down to the blue flame flickering around its head.

"Eight days later, another eighteen-year-old girl, Lucy Scales, and her younger sister, Lisa, were passing through Green Dragon Alley on the outskirts of Limehouse when they spotted a figure slumped in an angle of the passage and draped with a cloak. The person appeared to be in distress; the sisters heard groans of pain. Lucy approached it and asked whether she could help, at which the figure raised its head, which was clad in a black helmet around which blue fire raged. The creature screamed and a tongue of flame leaped from its head to Lucy's face, blinding her and sending her staggering backward. She dropped to the ground and was stricken with violent fits which continued for many hours after the encounter. Lisa held Lucy, called for help and-My God!"

Trounce's eyes widened and he stared at Burton, his mouth working.

"What is it?" asked the explorer, puzzled.

"I-I'd forgotten!"

"Forgotten what?"

"My God!" repeated Trounce, in a whisper.

"Spit it out, man!" snapped Burton.

The detective cleared his throat and continued, speaking slowly and with apparent amazement: "As Lucy lay in her sister's arms, Spring Heeled Jack walked quickly away. Lisa reported that he was talking to himself in a highpitched, crazy-sounding voice. Most of his words, she said, were unintelligible. There was, however, one phrase that came to her clearly."

Trounce paused. He looked at the man opposite, who asked: "What was it?"

"Apparently," replied Trounce, "he shouted, `This is your fault, Burton!"'

Sir Richard Francis Burton felt icy fingers tickling his spine.

The two men looked at one another.

Shadows shifted across the walls and the sound of a mournful foghorn pushed at the windowpane.

"Coincidence, of course," whispered Trounce.

"Obviously," replied Burton, in an equally hushed tone. "In 1838, I was seventeen years old and living with my parents and brother in Italy. I'd spent very little of my life in England and had certainly never encountered or even heard of Spring Heeled Jack."

Another pause.

Trounce shook himself, opened the report, and looked down at it.

"Anyway, now we come to my own encounter," he said, brusquely, "which occurred on June 10, 1840; perhaps the most infamous date in English history."

Burton nodded. "The day of the assassination."

Dennis the Dip slowed down Police Constable William Trounce by five minutes; five minutes in which the eighteen-year-old policeman could have become a national hero rather than the laughing stock of Scotland Yard.

Constable Trounce's beat incorporated Constitution Hill, and he always timed it so that he got there at six o'clock, just as Queen Victoria and her husband emerged from the "Garden Gate" of Buckingham Palace in their open-topped carriage for their afternoon spin around Green Park. For the twenty-year-old queen, the daily ritual was a breath of fresh air-so far as the word "fresh" could be applied to London's malodorous atmosphere-an hour's escape from the stifling formality of Buckingham Palace, with its dusty footmen and haughty butlers, servile advisers and fussing maids; while for the citizens who gathered along the route, it was a chance to cheer or boo her, depending on their opinion of her three-year reign.

Trounce was usually quick to warn those who jeered to "move along."

Today, though, as he proceeded along the Mall, Trounce spotted Dennis the Dip and decided to follow him. The notorious pickpocket was, as usual, dressed as a gentleman and looked entirely at ease among the well-heeled crowd that sauntered back and forth along the ceremonial avenue. It was a disguise. Had he opened his mouth to speak, the chopped and diced version of the English language that emerged would have immediately marked Dennis as a native of London's East End, otherwise known as "the Cauldron."

He scrubbed-up well, did Dennis, thought Trounce, as he slowed his pace and kept his eyes on the meandering crook.

The pickpocket was obviously looking for a mark and, when he found it, Trounce would swoop. It would be a nice feather in his cap if his very first arrest ended the career of this particular villain.

However, it soon became apparent that Dennis was rather indecisive today. He wandered from one side of the avenue to the other; trailed first one man then the next; stopped by a doorway and eyed passersby; and all the time his skillful fingers remained in plain view. They didn't plunge into a single pocket, not even his own.

After a while, Trounce grew bored, so he walked over to the petty crook and stood facing him.

"What ho, old son! What do you think you're up to, then?"

"Oh bleedin' 'eck, I ain't up to nuffink, am I!' whined Dennis. "Jest givin' me Sunday best an airing, that's all."

"It's Wednesday, Dennis."

"No law agin' wearin' a Sunday suit on a Wednesday, is there?"

The crook's rodentlike eyes swivelled right and left as if seeking an escape route.

Trounce unhooked his truncheon from his belt and pushed its end into Dennis's chest.

"I'm watching you, laddie. Those fingers of yours will be slipping into where they're not welcome before too long, and, when they do, nay fingers will be closing over your shoulder, mark my words. We'll soon have you out of that suit and wearing the broad arrow. There are no pockets in prison uniforms, did you know that?"

"Yus. But you ain't got no cause to threaten me!"

"Haven't I, now? Haven't I? Well, see it stays that way, Dennis my lad. Now hop it! I don't want to see you in this neck of the woods again!"

With a vicious look at the young constable, the pickpocket spat onto the pavement and scurried away.

Constable Trounce grinned and resumed his beat.