"Mr. Carnelian was kind to me. He rescued me from imprisonment."
"Aha! And you were able to do the same for him here?"
"No. I am still not sure how he escaped death on the gallows, but escape he did — went back to his own time — then returned. Was it only last night? To Bromley."
"Your husband then called the police."
"Inadvertently, the police must have been called, yes. My husband was overexcited. Have you heard how he is, by the way?"
"I have only read the papers. He is quoted, in the more sensational sheets, as claiming that you have been leading a double-life — by day a respectable, God-fearing Bromley housewife — by night, an accomplice of thieves — 'A Female Charlie Peace' I believe you were termed in today's Police Gazette ."
"Oh, no! Then my reputation is gone for good."
Mr. Jackson inspected the cuff of his shirt. "It would seem that it would take much, Mrs. Underwood, to restore it. You know how the odour of scandal clings, long after the scandal itself is proved unfounded."
She straightened her shoulders. "It remains my duty to try to convince Harold that I am not the wanton creature he now believes me to be. It will cause him much grief if he thinks that I have been deceiving him over a period of time. I can still attempt to put his mind at rest on the issue."
"Doubtless…" murmured Mr. Jackson, and his pencil moved rapidly across the page of his notebook. "Now, could we have a description of the future?" He returned his attention to Jherek. "An Anarchist Utopia, is it, perhaps? You are an anarchist, are you not, sir?"
"I don't know what one is," said Jherek.
"He certainly is not!" cried Mrs. Underwood. "A degree of anarchy might have resulted from his actions…"
"A Socialist Utopia, then?"
"I think I follow your meaning now, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood. "You believe Mr. Carnelian to be some kind of mad political assassin, claiming to be from an ideal future in the hope of propagating his message?"
"Well, I wondered…"
"Was this idea original to you?"
"Mr. Harris suggested —"
"I suspected as much. He did not believe a word of our story!"
"He considered it a trifle over-coloured, Mrs. Underwood. Would you not think so, if you heard it, say, from my lips!"
"I wouldn't!" smiled Jherek. "Because I know who you are."
"Do be quiet, please, Mr. Carnelian," said Mrs. Underwood. "You are in danger of confusing matters again."
"You are beginning to confuse me , I fear," said Mr. Jackson equably.
"Then we are only reciprocating, joking Jagged, the confusion you have created in us!" Jherek Carnelian got up and strode across the room. "You know that the Morphail Effect is supposed to apply in all cases of time travel to the past, whether by travellers who are returning to their own time, or those merely visiting the past from some future age."
"I'm afraid that I have not heard of this 'Morphail Effect'? Some new theory?"
Ignoring him, Jherek continued. "I now suspect that the Morphail Effect only applies in the case of those who produce a sufficient number of paradoxes to 'register' as it were upon the fabric of Time. Those who are careful to disguise their origins, to do little to make use of any information they might have of the future, are allowed to exist in the past for as long as they wish!"
"I'm not sure I entirely follow you, Mr. Carnelian. However, please go on." Mr. Jackson continued to take notes.
"If you publish all this, Mr. Carnelian will be judged thoroughly mad," said Mrs. Underwood quietly.
"If you tell enough people what I have told you — it will send us off into the future again, probably." Jherek offered Mr. Jackson an intelligent stare. "Wouldn't it, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson said apologetically. "I'm still not quite with you. However, just keep talking and I'll keep taking notes."
"I don't think I'll say anything for a while," said Jherek. "I must think this over."
"Mr. Jackson could help us, if he would accept the truth," said Mrs. Underwood. "But if he is of the same opinion as Mr. Harris…"
"I am a reporter," said Mr. Jackson. "I keep my theories to myself, Mrs. Underwood. All I wish to do is my job. If you had some proof, for instance…"
"Show him that odd-looking gun you have, Mr. Carnelian."
Jherek felt in the pocket of his coat and pulled the deceptor-gun out. "It's hardly proof," he said.
"It is certainly a very bizarre design," said Mr. Jackson, inspecting it.
He was holding it in his hands when there came a knocking on the door and a voice bellowed:
"Open this door! Open in the name of the Law!"
"The police!" Mrs. Underwood's hand went to her mouth. "Mr. Harris has betrayed us!"
The door shook as heavy bodies flung themselves against it.
Mr. Jackson got up slowly, handing back the gun to Jherek. "I think we had better let them in," he said.
"You knew they were coming!" cried Mrs. Underwood accusingly. "Oh, we have been deceived on all sides."
"I doubt if Mr. Harris knew. On the other hand, you were brought here in an ordinary cab. The police could have discovered the address from the cabby. It's rather typical of Frank Harris to forget, as it were, those all-important details."
Mr. Jackson called out: "Wait one moment, please. We are about to unlock the door!" He smiled encouragingly at Mrs. Underwood as he undid the catch and flung the door wide. "Good afternoon, inspector."
A man in a heavy ulster, with a small bowler hat fixed rigidly upon the top of his rocklike head, walked with massive bovine dignity into the room. He looked about him, he sniffed rather as Mrs. Underwood had sniffed; pointedly, he looked neither at Jherek Carnelian nor at Mrs. Underwood. Then he said:
"Herr-um!"
He wheeled, a cunning rhino, his finger jutting forward like a menacing horn, until it was quite close to Jherek's nose. "You 'im?"
"Who?"
"Mayfair Killer?"
"No." Jherek inched backwards.
"Thought not." He fingered a thoroughly well-waxed moustache. "I'm Inspector Springer." He brought bushy brows down over deep, brooding eyes. "Of Scotland Yard," he said. " Heard of me, 'ave you?"
"I'm afraid not," said Jherek.
"I deal with politicals, with aliens, with disruptive forrin' elements — an' I deal with 'em extremely firm ."
"So you believe it, too!" Mrs. Underwood rose. "You are mistaken in your suspicions, inspector."
"We'll see," said Inspector Springer cryptically. He raised a finger and cocked it, ordering four or five uniformed men into the room. "I know my anarchists, lady. All three of yer have that particular look abart yer. We're going' to do some very thorough checkin' indeed. Very thorough."
"You're on the wrong track, I think," said Mr. Jackson. "I'm a journalist. I was interviewing these people and…"
"So you say, sir. Wrong track, eh? Well, we'll soon get on the right one, never fear." He looked at the deceptor-gun and stretched out his hand to receive it. "Give me that there weapon," he said. "It don't look English ter me ."
"I think you'd better fire it, Jherek," said Mr. Jackson softly. "There doesn't seem to be a lot of choice."
"Fire it, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson shrugged. "I think so."
Jherek pulled the trigger. "There's only about one charge left in it…"
The room in Bloomsbury Square was suddenly occupied by fifteen warriors of the late Cannibal Empire period. Their triangular faces were painted green, their bodies blue, and they were naked save for bangles and necklaces of small skulls and finger-bones. In their hands were long spears with barbed, rusted points, and spiked clubs. They were female. As they grinned, they revealed yellow, filed teeth.