We stood before Butler's Boarding House which presented itself to us as         an aged Georgian structure. I noted 2 leaded windows that ran down and          alongside the massive black front door.                                                                                                                         There were several windows on the ground floor level, all of them heavily       curtained.  There were also six windows along the face of the building          on the first floor, three on the north wing; three on the south.  A large       balcony extended out over the main entrance.                                                                                                                    A police constable stood near the front door.  Lestrade was talking to him.     We stood in the great hall and looked about.  The house, clean as it ap-        appeared to be, was nevertheless grey with age and dark. From where we          stood we could see a back doorway directly ahead, a large and comfor-           table parlor off to our right, and a small dining room to our left.                                                                                             A narrow staircase lead from the great hall to the first floor.  The doorways   to the kitchen and the manager's room were off the hall and near the back door  The stairwell was ill-lit there being no window or other pane of glass set in   the wall to allow light to enter.                                               The rail alongside the stairs was, at one time, a wonderfully carved wooden     piece.  The ages of hands and fingers have cooled the luster and dulled the     patina of the ancient oak.                                                      A thin and somewhat ragged maroon carpet had been laid down.  It, too, ex-      hibited the ravages of age.                                                     We came to the door which leads out to the back of the house and the yew        alley.  It was closed.  We could see that Mrs. Lakly, the house manager, was    still in her room.                                                              I pulled aside the thin yellowed curtain that hung over the door - window       and peered outside.  The alley appeared to be no more than 10 or 15 feet        wide.  Two piles of rubbish were settled on either side of the door.                                                                                            Beyond the alley lay a large copse of trees, nearly black in their denseness.   The copse appeared to run parallel to the alley - from north to south.          We stood in the middle of the parlor and looked about.  Worn furnishings        and thin carpeting were everywhere.  The furniture was dark and massive -       a style from an earlier time. Thick maroon curtains barred any light from       possibly coming in.  The gas jets on the walls were aflame sending dancing      shadows across the walls.                                                       A single newspaper lay, unread, on an ancient sideboard.                        The servant girl's room was both small and neat.  A simple bed was set to       one corner of the room; a small dresser and a washstand were placed against     one wall.                                                                       There were no personal effects, save for a small book of poetry, in evidence.   The manager's room appeared to be well lived in.  The furnishings were          evidently her own and brought in from her former residence.  The bedstead       and small side tables were of the current fashion and well maintained.          A small settee was positioned in one corner of the room; an older desk was      set in another corner.                                                          Several pictures, of good quality, hung on the walls. A small writing desk      was neatly kept.                                                                A journal-ledger lay on top of the desk.                                        The dining room was sparse in its furnishings. A large mahoghany table was      set in the middle of the room.  Eight chairs were placed around the table,      and a large sideboard was placed against a far wall facing the draped window.   A few serving platters and other utensils had been carefully arranged on        the sideboard.                                                                  The kitchen was a large airy room with a substantial wooden work table          set directly in the middle.  Wide wooden counters were attached to every        available portion of wall space, save where the kitchen ovens were built.       Cooking utensils of every shape and size were carefully placed on hooks         and counters. Pans and skillets hung from overhead wrought iron hooks.          The young servant girl was moving quietly about her business.  Among the        various pieces hung on the walls I noted a stand of knives, cleavers, and       whetting stones.  All of the tools appeared to be in their proper place.        We stood outside the house, our backs to the rear door.  We were in the         middle of the yew alley which ran a true north-south course parallel            to the house.                                                                   The alley was bordered on the other side by a thick copse of trees.                                                                                             The alleyway itself was of hardpacked earth, save where we stood.  For a        few feet out from the back door and in every direction cobblestones had         been laid.  Two large piles of discarded building materials lay to our left     and right.  The first floor balcony, which overhung the back entrance, was      obviously the object of recent reconstruction.                                  We came to the southmost extent of the yew alley. A walkway, again of           cobblestone, would take us eastward alongside the house.  The trees bor-        dering the yew alley lay to the west. A high fence blocked our progress to      the south.                                                                      A flowerbed, uncared for and uncultivated, ran along the foundation of          the house till it met with the cobblestones behind the back door.  A high       trellis, barren of roses or any other climbing bush, was attached to the        back wall positioned between the balcony and the window of the guestroom.       The top of the trellis reached about a foot short of the window ledge.                                                                                          A strand of wire lay before us.                                                 A commissionaire appeared holding out a telegram.  I took it from him and       tore open the envelope.                                                         'Butler's', I exclaimed, 'has been involved in a fire!'                         'Nothing has been saved except the foundation.'                                                                                                                 It appears that we cannot visit this place.                                     We had moved just north of the back door and, from our position, looked         up and back over the yew alley.                                                 To the north lay the corner of the property; to the south, the alley itself     ending in a large stone fence.                                                  From our vantage point at the northwest corner of the property we could         look south, down the extent of the yew alley and eastward alongside the         house toward the sideroad that fronts the house.                                                                                                                A low stone fence, of ancient and primitive architecture, starts here and       and follows to the street.  We estimated that the path between the fence        and the house to be less than 5 feet in width.                                  As we looked over the fence and toward the north-east, we could see the         railway station just beyond the main road to the city.                                                                                                          We followed the line of the fence and stopped midway down the path.  To the     east lay Hargreave Road which, at its northern end, meets the London City       Road.                                                                           As we stand near the stone fence we can hear the bustle and commotion of        pedestrian and hansom traffic that is usual near railway stations.  We have     an excellent view of the station as there is no high bush or trees running      along the fence.                                                                We came to the south-east corner of the property and surveyed the plan of       the house and its lands.                                                        The Hargreave Road runs north in front of the house terminating at the          London City Road and the Borough rail stop.  The road seems to erupt from       the south for there is a bend near where we stand that is fairly hidden         by thick stands of trees.                                                       We are able to walk toward the west by following the stone fence.  As I         looked up I noted that there is only a single window on this side of the        house.                                                                                                                                                          We are at the top of the stairwell standing in the central hall of the          first floor.  The air here is heavy with the day's heat.  There is a            sharp scent of gas everywhere on this floor.                                                                                                                    The french doors leading to both the front and rear balconies are dressed       in a thin, worn lace curtain.                                                   The central hall allows us passage to two side corridors - one running to       the north, the other to the south.                                              We notice that the hall itself is well-worn, both in its carpeting and          in its fixtures.  Old, tired looking prints of various aspects of 17th          Century British life line each wall.  The sun, in its merciless assault,        has drained most of them of their vibrancy and colour.                                                                                                          As we stood on the back balcony overlooking the yew alley, we could             clearly make out the construction debris piled near the back doorway.                                                                                           The trellis that climbs from the dead flowerbed below reaches nearly to the     windowledge on our left.  Off to our right we can see the London City Road      and the fence that runs between the house and the road itself.                  We are mid-way in the north sidehall.  The hall terminates in a single window.  The walls here are dark and covered with an old-fashioned paper.                                                                                                The floorboards creaked as we passed over them; a voice of complaint and a      sigh of their age.                                                              We can make out the railway station from our vantage point at the window.       Two doors open onto the hall here, one to the east, one to the west.            A single gas lamp is alight giving some additional needed illumination.         We stop in the midst of our walk.  The victim's room is at the south-west       corner of the house.  A constable stands close watch - a stolid figure          in the murkiness of the corridor.                                               Across from him is Pelton's room.  The door is closed and may be locked.        Another door, this to the east, passes before our gaze.                                                                                                         As we walk we notice that the floor is plagued with what seems to be fine       pebbles that roll beneath our feet.  I believe that they were brought in        on the Constables' shoes.                                                       We are just outside the door of Piedmont's room.  The Constable tips            his hat to us.  We can look out the small window toward the south, but          there is little to see, save for a line of matted trees.  Mrs Lakly seems       tired and distraught by the incident.  The door to Pelton's room is closed      depriving us of a view of the room.                                                                                                                             Mr. Applegate was not present as we quickly examined his room. A single         window overlooks the yew alley; the walls in the room are barren of any         decoration.                                                                     A few personal effects were placed on a small writing desk which was set        off to one corner.  The room was neatly kept and altogether of little           interest to us.                                                                                                                                                 Mr. Boyle's room appears as chaos swept up in a maelstrom!                                                                                                      Books, carved figurines, and a whole battery of journals and newspapers         crowd every corner of the room. The presentation of the scene actually put      me in mind of our diggings back at 221B!                                                                                                                        There did not appear to be any system or order to the placement of the          papers or objects. I must admit that I simply stood in awe at the               incomprehensible tangle of things!                                                                                                                              As I surveyed the tragic scene, my eyes came quickly to the sprawled            body of Josiah Piedmont. The man lay face down - if one could call that         mutilated flesh a 'face'. A gun was firmly clenched in his right hand.                                                                                          The room held a table, a dresser with several drawers, a simple washstand,      and a bed. The window overlooking the Yew alley was a bay with the two          centre panes hinged to open out and away from each other. They were held        together by a stout sliding bolt.                                                                                                                               A small ashtray on the dresser held the dottles of pipe tobacco. The gas        lamps in the roomed burned weakly.                                              Pelton's room was neat and well ordered. One could tell at a glance that the    occupant of this room was new to it. Save for some workpapers piled atop        a writing desk, there were no other visible signs of occupancy.                                                                                                 A small armoire sat to one corner of the room; a washstand to the other. The    bed was left in a state of disarray after the police search.                    From the front balcony we could overlook the Hargreave Road that passes         before the house, the stand of trees to the south, and the London City Road     and railway station to the north.                                                                                                                               There did not appear to be any way down from this balcony, save through the     house itself.                                                                   The small storage room was large enough for one or two people to enter at a     time. Wooden shelves, hung on three walls, held cartons and boxes of various    sizes and descriptions. Only one appeared to be open in any way - all the       rest were apparently sealed.                                                                                                                                    I believed that this room is used to store the boarders' personal goods.        The railway station was a small, dark building which had evidently seen a       happier time. If one stood on the roadway side of the building, they            could just make out the shape of that horrific house across the road.           We found Drucker's to be located in a shabby, brown-black building several      streets from the boardinghouse. A simple hand-lettered sign signified that      we had reached our objective.                                                                                                                                   A thin sounding bell jingled on our opening the door. We had only to wait a     moment or so before a sallow-faced man emerged from the back of the             room.                                                                                                                                                           'Good day, gentlemen. My name is James Easton, manager of this office. How      may I serve you?'                                                                                                                                               Easton indicated that we should beseat ourselves, but we declined his           invitation.                                                                     We found our way to Bilestone Road, an address deep within Southwark. I         felt uncomfortable with the closeness of the buildings and the myriad of        aromas and pungent odors that poured from each open window we passed.                                                                                           Warnek's landlady escorted us to his rooms. Her name was Mabel Goderich; a      large framed woman who moved slowly and with a noticeable sway as she           navigated the stairs towards Warnek's rooms.                                                                                                                    We went in and looked about. With the exception of a simple yellow bandana      that lay across the bed and a single pawnticket, there was little here to       hold our attention.                                                             Bender's pawnshop was located in the deepest pit of Southwark, a troubling      walk from our last stop. The shop was instantly recognizable by the tarnished   brass balls that hung crookedly over the front door.                                                                                                            When we pushed back the creaking shop door, we could hear a scurrying sound     arise from behind the cluttered counter at the rear of the store. We            paused and waited until, from behind a tangled knot of ancient and long         forgotten goods, emerged a round ball of a man with a touseled white mane.                                                                                      'Bender here, mate! What'ya got and be quick about it! 'Syou can see, I got     me some work here to do!                                                        We arrived at the Diogenes Club at the proper hour. London's most un-           clubbable and introspective men were to be found here, uttering not a word      as they sat in luxurious leather sofas and either read of the world's           activities or thought deeply about whatever matters might concern them;         political, personal, or economic.                                                                                                                               We were let into the Stranger's Room where conversation was allowed. We sat     for precious moments awaiting the arrival of Holmes' brother, Mycroft.                                                                                          Our patience was rewarded with Mycroft's presence. He took few strides          across the room and sat down gracefully.                                        We entered the National Museum by a side door, well out of sight of the         main road. A steep stairwell took us up two flights. A single door              greeted us at the apex of our climb.                                                                                                                            We opened the door and walked into a small office, neat in appearance yet       filled to the overflowing with artworks, statuary, and books. In the midst      of the room we could make out the dark outline of a cleric. He was bent         over a small book; his eyes, mere inches from the pages.                                                                                                        This elderly priest was the ill-fated courier of the Vatican Cameos - the       Cardinal Luis DiSantoro. He heard us as we came in and stood to meet us.        The shipping offices of the Carlton-Star Line were situated at the end of       the White Quay overlooking the black and turgid Thames.                                                                                                         We entered the office and noted that a single young man was busily at work in   the rear. He took notice of us as we entered, completed his writing, then       came over to us.                                                                                                                                                'Gentlemen? '. He paused for us to state our business.                                                                                                          'Mr. Golding ', I said. 'We have some questions for you.' The young man was     taken aback my addressing him by name. He did not suspect that I had            simply read his signature from the document he held in his hand!                The purser's office was on the top deck of the Crimea. We achieved it by        nimbly topping each narrow staircase that presented itself to us.  (I was a     bit tired, if you must know. These narrow steps take their toll on bodies       such as mine!)                                                                  Joshua Abrams was the purser aboard the Crimea. From what we had learned,       Abrams had a quick mind and was scrupulous in his record-keeping.                                                                                               We entered the small office area.  He rose to greet us.                                                                                                         We stepped along the quay impressed by the general hubbub of activity.          Cargo vessels were disgorging their crated treasures into the waiting           hands of lascars and shoremen wearing gay yellow bandanas.  The pungent         aromas of men, muscle, and sea rose and fell as do the thundering waves of      the cold, grey ocean. We walked nearly the length of the quay observing         porters and steamship men as they navigated between the cargoes littering       the dockside and the miles of ropes and hawsers that snaked along the docks.                                                                                    Argyle House was located on Lowndes Street not far from Hyde Park and in        the Westminster Borough.  The area was quite fashionable through its            time and boasted numerous respected residents.                                                                                                                  The house was set back from the road aways. a high iron fence added to the      sense of separation of house from city.  We stepped through the front gate,     up the walk, and rapped on the front door.  We only waited a moment before the  oak barrier swung open to reveal the face of Hugh Carr's maid, Mrs. Little.     The housekeeper showed us in with a tiny wave and we stepped into the           Great Hall.                                                                                                                                                     We entered Carr's master suite and quickly looked about.  The bedroom was       well kept and neat to a fault.  The single large bed with four finely           turned posts appeared not to have been slept in at all.  The washstand          held a fine porcelain basin and pitcher, both immaculately kept - as            if they were museum pieces!                                                     Two armoires flanked the bedstead.  The one contained only formal               clothes and accessories; the other, a more casual collection of suits and       other clothes.  A well-crafted cane stood against one of the two large          chairs in the room.  As we pursued our investigations I could not help but      dwell on the overpowering aroma of a fat goose being roasted downstairs!                                                                                        We spent no little time in Carr's study which was set off the bedroom.          A large, ornately carved desk was situated nearly square in the middle of       the room.  A high-backed leather chair was set behind it, two smaller           chairs faced the desk from the other side.  A large stone fireplace             occupied the wall directly across from Carr's desk chair.  The fireplace        was flanked on both sides by two large, and somewhat wide, book cases.          Books were shelved throughout the room and on every wall, but not in            cases such as these two!  I noted the extremely well-designed lions' heads      that were attached to either side of the hearth.  The carpeting there           appeared to be slightly displaced, especially before the bookcase.              Ely Lane is one of those thin rivers of a street that trickle and meander       through the heart of the City. We found our way into the lane and began         to search out Carey's tobacco shop.                                             We had not traveled far before spotting the weathered sign hanging at an        angle over the front door.  We entered to the rich aromas of tobaccos of        every type imaginable.  The riotous assortment of smells was overtaken          only by the sight of hundreds of tins and jars of tobaccos in tens of           colours and cuts.                                                               Winston Carey, proprietor, was behind a counter blending tobaccos in a          small marble dish.                                                              The Angel Inn was set back from the docks, but still near the sound of the      water's lapping cry.                                                            The pub was active in only the ways that waterfront pubs can be.  Sailors,      smugglers, lascars and thieves all come together in an unholy meeting           place of blood, money, and tales of the sea.                                                                                                                    The barkeep was a burly, roughened man who looked more as if he were hewn       from wood then born of a woman.  Thick, sinewy arms ended in rugged, knurled    hands. A matted thicket of black beard covers his face. The evidence of         past brawls is deeply engraved in that visage.                                                                                                                  The firm of Liddle & Grey was to be found off Leadenhall Street not             far from the Lloyd's Register.                                                  We entered the offices and directed our enquiries toward a young clerk.                                                                                         'Mr. Bryant is about, gentlemen. I believe that he is free to see you.'                                                                                         We followed the young man past several desks where clerks of every              age scribed the history of this country's great economic destiny.               Each shilling and pound which exchanged hands on that day were duly             noted and recorded.                                                             We came in a moment to be led in to meet Geoffrey Bryant.                                                                                                       The firm of Depaul & Resizes is to be found on Oxford near Deans.  I had not    been in the vicinity for quite some time so I'd forgotten the hurly-burly       which marks the region.                                                         The firm itself is housed in a rather sedate, comfortable looking building.     From the exterior it would be almost impossible to divine the thousands of      pounds that were transacted within.                                             We were greeted warmly on our arrival and set to wait in a comfortable room     off the main lounge.  We had only to pass a little time when a thin, short      man entered. His grey-blue eyes picked at our features quickly.                                                                                                 'Good day, I am Mr. Depaul.'                                                    Buxton's Hotel is to be found on Ebury Place, not a far distance from           the Victoria Station.  It is a classic hotel from its exterior design and       graceful form to its interior appointments.                                                                                                                     Thick carpeting greeted us as we entered the mosaic and tiled lobby.            Large chandeliers, all alight, seemed to me to be rainbows in the sky.          We approached the rich marble and oak reception desk. A clerk was               quietly recording numbers in a great grey ledger.  The lobby, save for us       and the clerk, was silent.                                                      I gave a short cough to draw the man's attention.                               We entered Scotland Yard and quickly made our way through the familiar          corridors and offices until we found the door marked 'Inspector Lestrade'.                                                                                      I pushed on the wooden door and let ourselves in, unannounced.                                                                                                  Lestrade looked up quickly.                                                                                                                                     'Holmes! Watson! I had not heard from you.  Have you agreed with me that        Piedmont's murderer is safely in Bow Street, or are you still theorizing?'                                                                                      Lestrade smiled thinly.'In any case, please come in! '                          My eyes passed over our rooms at Baker Street.  The various momentos of our     earlier cases are scattered all about.  Newspapers, journals, the indices and   the commonplace books are strewn about the room or piled in teetering towers    at every corner.                                                                There is both a sense of security here and a sense of excitement!               The Non-Pareil Club has always dredged up images of London's                    underworld.  Too many of the members of this club have, at one time or          another, run afoul of her Majesty's Laws.                                                                                                                       We came to the entrance of the club and entered through to the visitor's        gate.  A concierge, dressed in black, greeted us.                               We handed over our cards and he looked up.  His eyes betrayed his intense       curiousity in our appearance.                                                   Bow Street Jail is such a vile and depressing institution that it has           constantly confounded me that any sane person should risk being                 incarcerated here!                                                              We were led past many bleak cells by the constable of the watch before          we came to the one that housed Pelton.  Our client sat, fixed and staring.      The constable turned the lock.                                                                                                                                  'He's been like that since he arrived. Hasn't said a word!'                                                                                                     The Anchor Pub is well hidden in and among the various Thames-side              dock houses, boat houses, and sweat shops south of The City.  We had no         little trouble in finding the house.  We followed numerous alleys, cobbled      and crooked streets, and then finally a thin dirt path to come this old         and near forgotten pub.                                                         We stepped to the door and I stopped. There was no sound coming from            within.  I could only hear, across the back of my brain, the gentle lapping     of the Thames along the breakwall.                                              My hesitation was brief. Within a minute, we were inside. There was a           single door behind the bar.                                                     The Diogenes Club has always represented both the best and the worst in         us British.  The minds of the gentlemen who sit in spectral silence,            closing themselves off from the world, are amongst the best in Britain;         perhaps the world.  It is their unsociability; their total and absolute         withdrawal behind these walls that gives me pause to consider the worst.                                                                                        We were shown immediately to the Stranger's Room. Mycroft Holmes was            already there. He was reading some notes and waved to us to be seated.                                                                                          We came to the front door of the Ryder Agency and looked around the             street.  It was quiet, almost dead.  We had anticipated a neighborhood          quite alive, but were somewhat disappointed.                                                                                                                    We entered the bright and cheery office and noted the numerous prints of        properties for sale that lined nearly every wall.  It appeared to be a          prosperous business.                                                                                                                                            'We are looking for a Mr. Martin', I said, addressing a younger man with        bright eyes.                                                                                                                                                    'I am he.  What can I do for you?'                                                                                                                              The Pretoria was lying loose to dock.  The gangplank appeared to roll with      the tremors of the Thames.                                                      'She's a cargo vessel, Holmes!', I cried.  'There'll be no purser aboard        her.'                                                                           We came to the top of the boarding stair and were met almost immediately        by a rough-faced crewman.                                                       'What business have you here?', he snarled.                                                                                                                     'We are here', I said in a cold voice, 'to get information.  Who shall          give it to us.'                                                                                                                                                 The sailor pointed to the bridge. 'See the Master', he spat.                    The Mary Hamilton was an impressive sight.  Her wide, clean hull reflected      the best in shipbuilding design.                                                We came to one of several boarding gates and were provided admission            quickly and with great courtesy.  As we stepped aboard a junior officer         stopped us.                                                                     'May I be of some service?'                                                     We enquired as to the purser's office.  The officer quickly and concisely       instructed us as to the quickest route to the room.                                                                                                             We followed his directions explicitly and were there in minutes.                The kitchen was rather large room, designed obviously for the cooking of        large meals by a handsome staff.                                                There were two cooks working there as we entered.  The rich aroma of            goose and pies were everywhere.                                                 The room was bright and neat, save for all the items laying about in            various stages of preparation.  A large table occupied the centre of            the room and a large oven with several baking hearths took up much              of one wall.                                                                    Mayback's was located only a short walk from Argyle House. We noted that it     was well maintained both inside and out.                                                                                                                        There were very few chemicals or drugs to be seen.  Most, I would suppose,      would be hidden behind the various cupboards and cases that lined the           place.  A single counter was set up across the rear of the shop.  Two or        three people were busily at work.                                               We approached the counter and drew attention to ourselves.  A young man         with blonde hair and great grey eyes looked up from his work.                                                                                                   'Yes?', asked the clerk.  'May we help you?'                                    We knocked on the door of the suite that had been identified by the clerk       as the Leicester Suite.                                                         We waited a brief moment.  Then, from behind the door, a 'hallooo!' could       be heard.                                                                       I tried the door and it was unlocked.  We entered the suite and looked          about.  The lavish interiors, the appointments, the classic furnishings         selected in only the best of taste!                                             I was so taken by the surroundings that I failed to notice the greyhaired       gentlemen sitting in a chaise with a paper across his knee.                                                                                                     'I'm Martin', he said, and stood up to greet us.                                We entered DiSantoro's cabin through the door leading in from the deck.         The room was comfortably appointed and somewhat larger than one might           expect for a vessel whose journey is less than a day!                                                                                                           There was a second door leading into the stateroom, this one coming in          from what appeared to be the side of the room.                                  A single porthole, adjoining the primary entrance, looked out over the deck.    The great soot dappled building that houses Joshua Reynolds & Co. was           located deep in the bowels of the City and not far from the Bank of             England.                                                                        We found our way to the proper office, a small place tucked away in             the depths of the building.  Two or three clerks could be seen busily           addressing some problem or another.  A well dressed gentleman that I took       to be the office manager came out from behind a great desk to meet us.                                                                                          'Good day, gentleman.  My name is Reynolds; Howard Reynolds.  What may I        do for you?'                                                                                                                                                    Conroy lived in a quiet residential suburb of London. The boarding house        where he had rooms appeared to be neatly kept and somewhat comfortable.                                                                                         The landlady opened the door for us and pointed us toward Conroy's rooms.       We took ourselves up the single flight of stairs, came to the room that         was indicated to us, and rapped twice.                                                                                                                          A bright young face, fully freckled and not unintelligent in appearance,        peeked out from the just opened door. We identified ourselves and our           purpose and were quickly ushered into the small, spartan, but                   comfortable room. Conroy sat down opposite us and invited our questions.                                                                                        #                                                                               Sherlock Holmes                                                                                                                                                 We've failed, brother.                                                          Have word that the Cameos are out of the country. Exhibition cancelled.         The Cardinal has been recalled to Rome in disgrace.                                                                                                             Perhaps next time!                                                                                                MYCROFT                                                                                                                       comfortable room. Conroy sat down opposite us and invited our questions.                                                                                        