Miles looked up from the desk in the back corner of the book shop as the small bell above the door announced an arrival.

"I'll be right with you," he said. He carefully finished applying a small strip of archival tape to a small tear in the dust jacket of the book he was working on. Satisfied that it wouldn't continue to tear any further, he closed the book and stood up to greet his visitor.

His customer was a middle-aged man in a grey business suit, somewhat worn but of reasonable quality. He held a book carefully in both hands.

"I was hoping that you might be able to help me determine what this is worth," he said, sounding a little unsure. "I only recently acquired it, and I admit I know very little about antiques. I'm told it's a first edition."

"Of course," said Miles amiably. The corner of the bookshop held a pair of overstuffed leather chairs and a small sofa, by a fireplace and a low walnut coffee table; Miles gestured to the chairs. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Let's see what you have here."

The book was a fairly small volume in a worn beige paper wrapper, perhaps two hundred pages. Miles studied the cover and binding with a small magnifying glass, and then opened it carefully. The title page had a small piece missing from the corner, but it didn't affect the text: A Study in Scarlet, by A. Conan Doyle. Miles spent several minutes examining various aspects of the book while its owner watched with interest.

"Well," he said finally, "you have a first edition of sorts here. It's not the first publishing of this story; that was in Beeton's Annual if I recall. This is the first American edition. A book version was published here about a year earlier. It's not in excellent condition either, I'm afraid - you've noticed the corner cut to the title page, I'm sure. There's also a fair amount of shelf wear along the bottom edge, see here... and there is some deterioration of the cover material.

"However, on the positive side, this particular book is notoriously difficult to find in reasonable condition and is in fairly high demand. It appears authentic to me, on a cursory inspection. I'd take a guess at a value of perhaps 3,500 pounds."

"Really? Well. I must say that's rather a bit more than I'd hoped for---thank you!"

"You said earlier that this isn't something you know much about," said Miles. "That being the case, my advice to you is that you obtain a couple of other appraisals as well. After all, being unfamiliar with the subject you have no more basis on which to trust my evaluation than you do to appraise the book yourself. If you would like a more thorough, formal appraisal for insurance purposes or merely for your records I can do that for a fee, though it will take a little time as I will need to do a bit of research."

Miles told him what he usually charged for official appraisals, and the fellow seemed amenable. "Yes, I think I would like to do that," he said. "I haven't decided whether I want to sell it, but I think I should be rather disappointed to lose it in some accident at this point."

"I don't blame you at all." Miles took the man's name and made a few notes, then set the book carefully with a couple of others also awaiting evaluation. While he was writing out a receipt the doorbell jingled again---the postman this time. He waved to Miles and set a small stack of letters and flyers on the table by the door as he always did when the shop was open. Miles waved back and handed the man a receipt for possession of the Holmes story. "Give me a week or two, I'd say. I'll ring you when it's ready."

After the man left Miles picked up the stack of post and retired to one of the chairs in the corner. He flipped through the items quickly---most were advertising, a couple of bills.

One small envelope caught his eye, a heavy cream parchment hand-addressed in a fluid, flowing script. There was no return address, and the back of the envelope bore a red wax seal. The seal was certainly hand-engraved, noted Miles idly. The level of intricate detail and craftsmanship in the image of a Phoenix was considerably beyond that of the inexpensive mass-produced seals commonly available these days.

Curious, Miles cracked the seal open and withdrew the single sheet inside...

'Mr. Aldred,
     Your presence is requested at the demesne of one Jeffrey Duvalle, President of the non-profit organization, The Phoenix Foundation. A casual dinner will be followed by a business proposal. Please call 065-333-4563 for directions. The appointment will be Friday, August, 21st at 8:00 pm.

The beginning of the letter was very formal, almost clipped in style. As Miles continued to read, he immediately sensed a change in tone and demeanor of the writer.

     'Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Aldred. I would like to discuss a proposition that would allow you to exercise your unique talents and knowledge in ways to assist society. I am sure you are inundated with requests for a return to your previous 'profession'. Please rest assured, Mr. Aldred, this is not one of those requests. While skepticism can be expected, I ask only that you come with an open mind. I can promise the dinner will be good and your valuable time will not be wasted. I am eager to meet you and discuss the opportunity further.

Sincerely,
Jeffrey Duvalle
President, The Phoenix Foundation'

Miles set down the letter and thought for a moment, then rose and locked the door. The shop's hours had always been approximate, and for some reason he couldn't have quite explained he didn't want to be interrupted for the moment. He selected a cigar from a heavy wooden humidor, poured himself a glass of cognac, and returned to the letter. Re-reading it a couple of times didn't result in any insight.

As best he could recall, Miles had never heard of Jeffrey Duvalle. The Phoenix Foundation sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't remember anything specific about it either. Presumably he had seen mention of it in some rare book or other, but any specifics eluded him. They had certainly not been a former client.

His 'previous profession,' Duvalle had said. The letter overstated things somewhat; in fact Miles was no longer inundated with offers, though they did still trickle in steadily. People were finally beginning to believe he really had retired, evidently. Still, he didn't advertise himself, and those who wanted to hire him did not generally advertise him either. Job offers invariably came from someone he knew, or with a reference he recognized. So how had Duvalle become familiar with his reputation? It might be worth accepting this offer just to learn more about Duvalle and his background.

Miles held the letter up and idly watched cigar smoke curl and flow around it. Under most circumstances he wouldn't have given an unsolicited request like this a second thought, but something nagged at him, and he wanted to know more. He still didn't plan to accept the offer, whatever it might be---but perhaps dinner.  Perhaps.

He slept fitfully that night, but when he awoke he couldn't recall the specifics of any dreams he may have had. As a general rule Miles slept soundly, but he didn't feel all that rested this morning. He thought again about the letter he'd been pondering yesterday, but no new insight came to mind.  After a light breakfast of whole-grain toast and black coffee he decided to see if he could find any more information about this Duvalle and his foundation. It was still too early to call to the States, but he had a couple of old friends closer at hand who might know something. He picked up the phone and began making calls.

Half an hour later though he had no new information, somewhat to his surprise. All he'd been able to manage were a couple of promises to see what they could find and get back to him. At least no one had known of any red flags off the top of their heads, and it wasn't a sting of some kind---that was somewhat reassuring. He examined the letter again, and finally made up his mind.

A young-sounding woman answered the phone.

"Thank you for calling the Phoenix Foundation, My name is Madigan, how can I help you?"

"I'm trying to reach Jeffrey Duvalle please," Miles replied in a cordial but businesslike tone.

"I'm afraid Mr. Duvalle is unavailable at the moment. Is there any message that you would like to leave for him?"

"My name is Miles Aldred. I'm calling in reference to an invitation he extended to me."

"Ah, Mr. Aldred---I'm very glad to hear from you; we'd been hoping you would be in touch. May we expect you for dinner?"

So whatever this was about it was high enough on people's lists of projects that his name and its context were immediately familiar to her. Interesting. "Yes, I believe I shall be attending. I should warn you that I do not fully understand everything that was implied in the invitation; if I am expected to, perhaps you've mistaken me for someone else."

"No mistake Mr. Aldred, the invitation was intended for you, without a doubt. Please don't worry, Mr. Duvalle will explain everything on Friday, and all we ask is that you listen. If you choose to decline his proposal, rest assured that we will not impose upon you further."

She proceeded to give him clear and concise directions to the location of this dinner and business proposal, and then rang off politely.

She was not what he had expected. The mystery deepens...

The address she had given him was in Windlesham, just off the London road. in Surrey.