Bruce,” Sedgwick said from the doorway of the study, his voice shaking. “They’re Defenders, I think.” Bruce looked up from the financial newspaper he was reading. It was about time they showed up. “Who are they?” “Only one gave his name, a Mr. Fergus Whipple,. When I explained you weren’t receiving visitors, he told me they were here on official practitioner business and you’d want to see them. He emphasized the word want. What shall I tell them?” Bruce put the paper aside. At first he’d thought about receiving the expected delegation in the living room, but soon discarded the idea. The study was a much better place. Not only because his grandfather was “watching over” the proceedings. Alton—the idiot—had actually cast with his Stone here. The residue from his foolhardy actions would mask emanations from Bruce’s own Stone below in its secret room—if there was the slightest leakage. The old man had really done a magnificent job shielding the Stone’s hiding place and its use.
