I couldn't stop shaking. My tie was crooked. My jacket looked worn. I cursed my pants, my shoes. It was all wrong, bush league, low-class. Nothing I could do about it now. I wished I'd had the courage to ask Nigel to come with me. I knew he would be there, but just as certainly, I knew that I couldn't say anything to him, that I was supposed to arrive alone. 2312 Morland Street. I didn't even know what that was. Was it the secret clubhouse? Even Miles, my source of all things creepy and Ivy League, didn't know where the physical heart of the V&D was located. There was no famous landmark, no cryptic house for tourists to photograph. At least, not as far as he knew. And Miles ate this stuff up with the delight of a stamp collector. If he didn't know, who else could I ask? Yesterday, I told Miles about the invitation. I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to tell someone. He was a huge help. He stroked his wild beard, patted me on the shoulder, and said: "My advice?
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