The boy had been vague, so Tristan had fetched his bag with the usual emergency and standard equipment and had hurried to that side of town. A more pleasant side of town than busy Flowergate with the ceaseless noise of seagulls, fishermen, drunk and argumentative people in the yards behind the house, and carts rolling up and down the street. The air was fresher here and there was space for gardens. If you looked out of the window here you might see the sea, rather than what the people living across the street were doing.

But he had no time or energy to enjoy it. He had barely recovered from the stress of settling in and getting the practice running, when this morning's newspaper had nearly made him sick. If he had seemed distracted and uninterested and occasionally short tempered to his clients this morning, it was because that was exactly what he had been. He couldn't even worry over losing clients. He might not even have bothered with this call, if he had known it wasn't fatal. But he couldn't get much information out of the boy, other than the address and the boy's affirmation that it was urgent. And so he hurried along.

Reaching the house, he strode up to the door and knocked. "Dr. Wells, for Mr. Meijer!" he called out, hoping that the maid would hurry.