Tristan sat at his desk, reading one of the books that were normally locked away. There were others on the desk as well, with titles such as 'Psychopathia Sexualis: eine Klinisch-Forensische Studie', 'Forschungen über das Räthsel der mannmännlichen Liebe', and 'Araxes: Ruf nach Befreiung der Urningsnatur vom Strafgesetz'. There were several papers lying about with single paragraphs of handwritten text, and occasionally, Tristan penned down some notes in a notebook, or added some lines to one of the papers. On the corner of the desk lay a messy pile of newspaper clippings about the trial against Oscar Wilde and journalistic commentaries.

For the past few weeks or so, Tristan had obsessively read every article he could find on the trial and every commentary in its aftermath. That terrible business had eaten away at him, until he had failed to eat, failed to sleep, and had been distracted and irritable during the day. He couldn't stop thinking about it, even though it made him sick to imagine Oscar Wilde humiliated and imprisoned.

And then he had picked up his studies and private writing with a renewed vigour, channeling all that upset into this project that made him feel - he had to believe it - that he could do something.

He had been so obsessed with news on the Oscar Wilde business, that he had not read any other news, and had missed an article on a certain missing heiress. And now he sat so engrossed in his studies, that he did not hear Pippa speak or move through the house, until she rapped on the frame of his open study door. "Pippa!" he called out, as he nearly jumped out of his seat.

Flustered, he threw some of the papers over his books, realized that exposed other books and the clippings, moved to the door instead, ushered Pippa and Douglas out of the way, stepped out, and closed the door behind him. "Wh-... Sorry... What's wrong?" he asked in a rather unsteady voice, for he hadn't really listened.