"All right then," said Justin, running a hand through his close-cut hair, "Where in hell am I anyway?" "That too is difficult. I believe it is called Belvoir. By the way, I am Dr. Ian Phillips, at your service." "Then you _are_ a doctor!" Justin exclaimed. "Would you mind explaining what's happened to me?" "A doctor of philosophy," was the gentle reply. "I was rather hoping that _you_, sir, were a physician." "Charles Justin, alleged banker, at your service." Justin swung his legs over the side of his cot, tested the floor, stood up. He discovered he was holding the spider clutched in his right hand, dropped it unobtrusively into his pocket. He must have taken it while falling asleep. "You must be an American, Mr. Justin," said Dr. Phillips. Justin, slightly bemused, said, "What? Oh--yes, Boston." "Remarkable," Dr. Phillips said unexpectedly, "that we should have _two_ Bostonians with us." "Let's count ten and start over again," Justin told him. "Isn't this Boston?" "Hardly!" Dr. Phillips' laugh was dry and sharp. "This is Belvoir. As to myself, I was in my diggings in London, taking a doze after tea before marking some tests, when I made the trip here." Justin made his way to a chair in the corner and sat down heavily. Dr. Phillips said, "Perhaps I'd better get your fellow Bostonian. I don't seem to be doing you much good." "Perhaps you'd better, doctor--thanks," murmured Justin. He put his head in his hands and tried not to think of what was happening. A minute or two passed. Then quick soft footsteps sounded and a pleasant voice said in utterly indefinable accents, "Ye mustn't feel so upset, Master Justin--we're all in the same boat." The girl had heavy brown hair that fell in neat slow ripples well below her shoulders. Like himself she was barefoot and her figure looked enormous in a tentlike white nightgown that covered her from shoulder to ankle. She had fine healthy pink-and-white skin, made intriguing rather than marred by an occasional pockmark, and her eyes were as blue as the waters of Cohasset Bay. Instinctively, despite a growing conviction that he was utterly mad, Justin scrambled to his feet. He said, "It does take a bit of getting used to--but perhaps you can help." "That's why I'm here, Master Justin," she said. "Poor Dr. Phillips tells me ye too are from Boston. I must say I do not find ye'r countenance familiar." Her accent, her phraseology--both were alien. As, come to think of it, was the nightgown she was wearing. Yet it was of a piece with his own pajamas and the dignified Dr. Phillips' lack of trousers. And those pockmarks--Justin studied them, then felt a surge of excitement. He said, "Pardon me for not knowing your name but--" "Deborah Wilkins, spinster, of Prince Street," she cut in. "--but," he went on, "would you mind telling me, Miss Wilkins, just _when_ it was that you were brought here?"