He peered closer at the profile. "Ugly looking sort of devil, isn't he? It would have been a memorable issue on that ground alone, I would think. But here â it's not a real coin, anyway." He held it out on his palm.
  I glanced from the coin to the numismatist's face. "What do you mean?"
  "It's a forgery," he said simply, pushing his spectacles back up. "See; look closer â it's nothing but a lump of base metal that's been electroplated. The coiners use a galvanic battery and cyanide of silver to achieve the effect. Though this is quite a fine example of that devious art; near perfect, I'd say." He handed it back to me. "Though what the purpose would be of forging a coin that doesn't exist in the first place â I couldn't speculate."
  "Indeed," I murmured, taking it between my thumb and forefinger. "Who would do such a thing?"
  "Oh, who is not the problem." The numismatist gestured dismissively. "I recognize the work; I'd lay considerable odds it's a Fexton you're holding."
  "Fexton?" I had never heard the name.
  "Quite. There are a few collectors with an enthusiasm for forged coins, considering them as curiosities more notable than the items they imitate. And among that lot, a Fexton coin is considered the most desirable. A true artist; pity about his moral nature. Yes. I'd say that no other hand but his could have produced that."
  I turned the coin round, studying it. The glittering object was even more mysterious now. "Can you direct me to this master forger?"
  "Oh, I'm afraid I can't help you there." He shook his head. "I knew the man, or as well as anyone did; very secretive fellow, beyond even the requirements of his trade. Perhaps deleterious fumes, from the chemicals he used, eventually affected his reason. The last I heard of him was a few years ago; he wrote me a letter, saying that he was relocating to â what was the phrase? -ah, yes, "the borough of Wetwick," said the letter. And then I heard no more from him since."
  Another mystery â I fancied myself reasonably familiar with the districts of London, but had never heard of Wetwick before. (Would that I were innocent of that knowledge now!) I said as much to the numismatist.
  "Nor I," he agreed. "As I said, perhaps his reason was impaired. Perhaps such a place only existed in his poor knackered brain, or at the weedy bottom of the Thames. Though I confess that my knowledge of the city is not encyclopaedic â here, why not hail a cabby, and ask him?"
  "Yes; yes, of course." I dropped the coin back into the velvet bag. The drivers of hansoms were noted for their knowledge of London's byways; their trade depended on it. If anyone would know of such a district, it would be one of their number. "Thank you."
  My investigations, fruitless as they might have been, had nevertheless taken all day to perform. Evening was already enveloping the city as I stepped from the numismatist's shop on to the thoroughfare. Within short order, I heard the creak of wheel and clop of hoof heralding the approach of a hansom cab. I raised my hand and bade it approach; the driver, from his lofty perch, adjusted the horse's progress with rein and whip, and was soon stopped in front of me.
  I looked up at the caped, top-hatted figure. He seemed a good choice; his luxuriant moustache was flecked with grey of age and experience. "Do you know the city well?" I called up to him.
  "Of course; get in, sir." His pride seemed somewhat nicked by my possible lack of confidence. "There's not a part I don't know, sir."
  My hand reached up to the cab's handle. "Can you take me to the borough of Wetwick?" I asked.
  His look of surprised indignation stayed my hand. He drew himself upright and glared down at me. "You didn't look to be that sort of gentlemen." His voice was harsh with barely suppressed outrage at my request. "You might find some other cabby
  I glanced from the coin to the numismatist's face. "What do you mean?"
  "It's a forgery," he said simply, pushing his spectacles back up. "See; look closer â it's nothing but a lump of base metal that's been electroplated. The coiners use a galvanic battery and cyanide of silver to achieve the effect. Though this is quite a fine example of that devious art; near perfect, I'd say." He handed it back to me. "Though what the purpose would be of forging a coin that doesn't exist in the first place â I couldn't speculate."
  "Indeed," I murmured, taking it between my thumb and forefinger. "Who would do such a thing?"
  "Oh, who is not the problem." The numismatist gestured dismissively. "I recognize the work; I'd lay considerable odds it's a Fexton you're holding."
  "Fexton?" I had never heard the name.
  "Quite. There are a few collectors with an enthusiasm for forged coins, considering them as curiosities more notable than the items they imitate. And among that lot, a Fexton coin is considered the most desirable. A true artist; pity about his moral nature. Yes. I'd say that no other hand but his could have produced that."
  I turned the coin round, studying it. The glittering object was even more mysterious now. "Can you direct me to this master forger?"
  "Oh, I'm afraid I can't help you there." He shook his head. "I knew the man, or as well as anyone did; very secretive fellow, beyond even the requirements of his trade. Perhaps deleterious fumes, from the chemicals he used, eventually affected his reason. The last I heard of him was a few years ago; he wrote me a letter, saying that he was relocating to â what was the phrase? -ah, yes, "the borough of Wetwick," said the letter. And then I heard no more from him since."
  Another mystery â I fancied myself reasonably familiar with the districts of London, but had never heard of Wetwick before. (Would that I were innocent of that knowledge now!) I said as much to the numismatist.
  "Nor I," he agreed. "As I said, perhaps his reason was impaired. Perhaps such a place only existed in his poor knackered brain, or at the weedy bottom of the Thames. Though I confess that my knowledge of the city is not encyclopaedic â here, why not hail a cabby, and ask him?"
  "Yes; yes, of course." I dropped the coin back into the velvet bag. The drivers of hansoms were noted for their knowledge of London's byways; their trade depended on it. If anyone would know of such a district, it would be one of their number. "Thank you."
  My investigations, fruitless as they might have been, had nevertheless taken all day to perform. Evening was already enveloping the city as I stepped from the numismatist's shop on to the thoroughfare. Within short order, I heard the creak of wheel and clop of hoof heralding the approach of a hansom cab. I raised my hand and bade it approach; the driver, from his lofty perch, adjusted the horse's progress with rein and whip, and was soon stopped in front of me.
  I looked up at the caped, top-hatted figure. He seemed a good choice; his luxuriant moustache was flecked with grey of age and experience. "Do you know the city well?" I called up to him.
  "Of course; get in, sir." His pride seemed somewhat nicked by my possible lack of confidence. "There's not a part I don't know, sir."
  My hand reached up to the cab's handle. "Can you take me to the borough of Wetwick?" I asked.
  His look of surprised indignation stayed my hand. He drew himself upright and glared down at me. "You didn't look to be that sort of gentlemen." His voice was harsh with barely suppressed outrage at my request. "You might find some other cabby
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