Waking and reaching, I found Rebecca’s side of the bed empty. It was 10:00. I left her a note to not expect me for dinner. Less than an hour later I was at the Purchasing Department, going through a Kanazawa Nippon catalog. Its 50-some pages are a delight to a would-be poisoner. I photocopied out KN 25. I did the same thing for O-35 in the Oregon catalog and E 7532 in the Eta Chemical Company catalog. Back at the library, I copied the relevant pages from the German dictionaries. Then I sat down to review my proof.

     Around noon, I rode my bike to the drugstore and picked up the snapshots. Then, back at the library, I inserted a small earphone and listened to my voice tapes of Ledbetter’s notebooks. I really did sound like a tobacco auctioneer. Studying the snapshots under my credit-card-shaped Fresnel magnifying "glass" from Edmund Scientific Company, I was able to determine the exact location of the notebook containing the details of Ledbetter’s death potion number 930105.

     A simple search for that number in Ledbetter’s computer files revealed the exact location of the deadly sample in his Revco freezer. Over the phone, the Purchasing Department verified that it would be possible to look up an order placed one-and-one-half years ago. And how would I verify that he performed the canine experiment? I remembered my conversation with the security guard on the day of the animal rights demonstration.

     With all of my facts solidly pinned down, I practiced my "Little Ditty" several times until I’d learned it by heart. Soon, it was 5:45 and time to head for the Faire Isle.

     When the Old Man opened his door, I was overwhelmed by a thick, greasy smell.

     "We are having lamb tonight," he said, rubbing his hands together in delight. "Would you fancy a claret before dinner?" he asked, uncorking a dignified-looking bottle. "So you have been making excellent progress. I cannot wait to hear."

     Westley’s face revealed boyish, indeed mischievous, delight. He looked so much younger and happier that night. I imagined him as a choirboy, getting ready to pull a caper. He played a favorite record for this special occasion: "Requiem, Op. 48" by Faure, performed by the Choir of Kings’ College, Cambridge, with John Wells at the organ. As we sat sipping wine, a boy sang the "Pie Jesu" in a beautifully clear treble. It seemed so strange to create beautiful music about death. The Old Man said that he had sung this part at Exeter. I asked if the performance was recorded.

     "Tape machines were not as abundant as they are now. Although Mr. Blackwood did attempt a recording, technically it was not of sufficient quality, and the experience was necessarily ephemeral."

     Margaret hobbled out of the kitchen looking more frail than I’d ever seen her. But she greeted me warmly and enthusiastically. The Old Man said that she had prepared a "simply marvelous" dinner. We sat down to lamb with mint sauce, roasted potatoes and carrots. For dinner music, the Old Man put on a record titled Ere’s ’Olloway, featuring Stanley Holloway with a number of English music hall ditties. In the fourth song, he sang the part of a happy vagabond who lived on a park bench in Trafalgar Square. It was written in three-quarter time and had the swing of a beer hall song. It was something of a musical travelogue, with a tongue-in-cheek description of the four guardian lions and Lord Nelson standing on top of the tall pedestal, surrounded by fountains and pigeons and everything. In the boisterous refrain, old Holloway declared that if it was good enough for Nelson, it was good enough for him.

     Margaret had hummed along to the first verse. By the second verse both Margaret and Dr. Westley were singing. After the third verse I sang along at the refrain. The song ended the three of us laughing heartily, Margaret so deeply that tears came to her laughing eyes, which showed the vulnerability and innocence of a little girl.

     "Can you tell me about Stanley Holloway?" I asked.

     "Oh, he is simply the most marvelous music hall singer. Very famous in England, you know," fluttered Margaret.

     "You Yanks may know him as the ne’re-do-well father in ‘My Fair Lady,’" added the Old Man.

     Whereas Margaret had prepared a feast of food, the Old Man had prepared a feast of conversation: spirited monologues on the charm of the British Isles in winter and in the spring as they greened — the gardens, the gentle waterways, the country houses and pubs. For dessert Margaret had prepared a "trifle." The Old Man almost popped a gut carrying the enormous lidded glass compote bowl. Rows of strawberries, tangerines and kiwis were pressed against the glass, making a festive pattern. The Old Man stood over it with a large spoon, dishing out portions. I imagined him as Father Christmas, handing out presents to the "wee children." I experienced a cozy, light-headed gaiety and lost all sense of time. Perhaps it was because Margaret had saturated the trifle with wine. Or was it rum?

     Finally, the Old Man suggested that we retire to the study. Margaret said that she would "retire to the kitchen, and thence to bed." I thanked her profusely for the nice meal and for her good company. When she trilled something about being an irrelevant old lady and a terrible bore, I felt the urge to hug her. She must have sensed it, because she offered her hand, which I took. Her smile was so warm, but her hand was as cold as death itself.

     The Old Boy glanced at me mischievously, drawing me into his study where he flipped on the light switch.

     "So you have made great strides in your studies, you tell me, Benjamin."

     I paused for a minute to let the old reels get into motion. I coughed and the input meters responded. Were the old vacuum tubes sufficiently heated?

     So speaking in our agreed-upon Pig Latin/Double-Entendre, I told the Old Man the whole story. At times he enjoyed it, but at times he became agitated and stared desperately at the old tape machine, as if praying that it would not fail him. I had brought strips of paper with the critical code numbers and dates of the notebook entries. When I laid down the first morsels on the table, he breathed a sigh of relief.

     I told him about the dog-poisoning experiments. I told him about the computerized access system for the animal rooms and that the guard said it records all comings and goings. As I told him about Ledbetter’s diary entries, and dropped several pieces of paper identifying the file names, the Old English Sheep Dog began to look more like a Border Collie trying to hold together a straying flock. My final words were in plain American English.

     "When you take possession of Ledbetter’s computer, you should make multiple magnetic-tape copies of his hard drive before doing anything. And copy all of his diskettes. Use skilled technical help. Don’t let any police sergeant-type do it."

     "Yes, Ben."

     "Well, this completes my solo at Exeter. Any comments or questions?"

     "No, it is simply enthralling. I had to take care not to sneeze during the performance. It would be a pity to have lost these valuable program notes."

     "Be sure to destroy the ‘program notes’ and all evidence of our conversations. I am prepared for some surprises, but I don’t want any big surprises."

     "Yes, one can always expect surprises in life. But one should not prepare too much for surprises, because they would then not be surprises, would they?" He delivered this piece of Lewis Carroll logic with a Cheshire Cat grin.

     We talked some more in double-entendre about maintaining innocence and how the Old Man had his work cut out for him.

     He said, "Some liken me to Sherlock Holmes. But then if this were merely a Sherlock Holmes adventure, we would be close to the end of the story. I would have only to inform the constabulary. But the United States of America is a constitutional democracy, and we have the problem of due process and legal proof. It is much like that popular television crime drama in which the police use the first half-hour detecting the murderer and the attorneys spend the second half-hour trying to prosecute him. So my task has just begun. And your task is also formidable. You must keep your head low, maintain you innocence, and do your utmost to keep from getting sucked into this thing."

     I must have yawned.

     Westley smiled and said, "I agree that it is getting a little late. Let me see you to the door. You have sung your part beautifully. You are the perfect choirboy. And honestly and truthfully, you have enjoyed coming here and sharing the company of Margaret and myself, haven’t you?"

     "Yes," I said, with true conviction.

     At this moment the Old Man seemed almost fatherly.

     "Godspeed."

     What a curious mixture of emotions I experienced, as the stout oak door closed slowly behind me: proud, foolish, sad, happy and uncertain. I had handed over my "definite eureka" and the Old Boy had saluted me with a "jolly well done." Henceforth, the King’s Shilling would be a memory — a keepsake in my drawer. But I did not realize at the time that I would have so much hell to pay.

     Released from clandestine duty, I redevoted myself to my classes. When Rebecca said I seemed more relaxed, I told her a major project had been completed. But there were some bits and pieces to attend to: destroying all the Ledbetter patents, my notes, deleting the Ledbetter files from my computer and overwriting the whole hard drive so that even the cleverest hacker couldn’t find the symbols KN 25, O-35 and E 7532.

     I dropped the photographs and the voice tapes in a dumpster in Coconut Grove and hid the backup tapes in an inaccessible battery compartment on the Diogenes.

     "Keep your head down, Ben," I said to myself. "Pray that you don’t get subpoenaed in the case. You can’t stand up to cross-examination, even when you’re telling the truth."

     I innocently devoted the rest of the week and weekend to my studies. We even took Rebecca’s friend Sally and her boyfriend out for a day-sail that Sunday.

     When Monday rolled around, I spent the morning in Rob McGregor’s lab, putting the finishing touches on a draft of a manuscript reporting our studies.

     Then two police detectives came to haul me downtown for questioning.