The Pendulum House, that great rambling old building which existed at the confluence of a number of streets with highly forgettable names, was a curious building and inhabited by an even more curious class of gentlemen. Gentlemen indeed for men they were; there was not a lady among them. It was not that the members of the club which infested the place, like highly educated and polite mice might infest the better sort of pantry, were adverse to the society of females --indeed several of them were notably and even notoriously fond of the above mentioned society -- it was simply that, for reasons not entirely understood, no female had ever applied for membership. This lack of extant female members had the predictable effect of discouraging the acquisition of any new members of that persuasion and so, quite by accident, the club had become as thoroughly masculine a place as can be imagined within the somewhat narrow confines of a society of clerks, clockmakers, lawyers, professors, and other men of mysterious and papery business. Yet let us not become too interested in the peculiarities of the members at the present, for they do not concern us nearly so much as a curious old building aforementioned.

Pendulum House was built nearly a century and a half ago by an unreasonably wealthy professor or astronomy who, in his old age, appears to have suffered from that curious malady that afflicts venerable personages; to wit, he took it upon himself to improve his dwelling. Possibly he believed that so long as his house was unfinished he himself could not die, or that he might confuse the ghosts which doubtless plagued him by such ceaseless activity, or perhaps he was attempting to annoy his neighbors. Most of the sufferers of this highly respectable form of madness tend to retire to their country estates where they add on superfluous wings to their houses and cause great outbuildings to be erected in out of the way places. Presumably the reason for the toleration of this behavior is the not inconsiderable good such projects do for the local laborers and artisans combined with the fact that country estates are, by definition, isolated affairs and are therefore unlikely to become too much a topic of constant local conversation. When a gentlemen takes it upon himself, however, to improve his already spacious home in town, it is quite a different matter.

The presence of so many other houses and civic buildings, not to mention the inconvenience of streets have a very material effect on restraining the progress of any improvements and so additional wings and the like have to be tacked on where ever there is space. In the case of Pendulum House this did much to explain why rooms that appeared to have started their lives as perfectly ordinary coat rooms had somehow evolved into impromptu vestibules which opened up into any number of corridors. There were staircases that appeared to go no where at all and others whose only purpose appeared to be to link two otherwise unrelated rooms. For example, the red billiard room contained behind a sliding panel in the north wall a narrow stair which led directly into what was once a butler's pantry. Why these two rooms should be so directly connected was anyone's guess.

The current anyone doing this guessing was Mr. Shrikeweed. Three days ago he had, quite by accident, dislodged by means of a billiard cue the above mentioned panel in the north wall. Upon the discovery of the passage that lay beyond, several intrepid members (Shrikeweed included) made so bold as to explore the stairs and were quite alarmed to come tumbling out into a room that once contained the silver service and now was the abode of a combination of dust and spare carpet slippers. The discovery had set the members' imaginations afire with visions of innumerable secret passages, possibly filled with nameless treasures or, more interestingly, nameless skeletons. So it was decided that an architect be consulted to look over the place. Curiously, there were no architectural gentlemen currently existing as members, as so an outsider of the proper sort was sent for. Who the Pendulum had acquired instead was a certian Mr. Guess who, while an architect of some note, had -- as can be seen -- a very unfortunate name for a gentleman in a profession that required exacting measurements.

It was the unanimous decision of the Pendulum that Mr. Shrikeweed, as the discoverer of the passage, should be the member to greet the architect. And so it was that Shrikeweed found himself waiting in the public sitting room for this Mr. Guess to show himself.

Benjamin Tulven Guess knew himself to be a lucky man. After all, here he was in the finest city in the known world, capable of practicing what he loved, and then he got the most curious letter from an establishment known as the Pendulum Club, offering him a job, and more importantly, an opportunity that many architectures would pierce a man's skull with a spring operated circular scribe to have.

Looking at the building in front of him, his fingers itched in anticipation. Ben was a student of the classical Viendan buildings, places that have been so sadly been disappearing in the constant porgress of his beloved city. And he understood, Vienda was change embodied, it was a trait he loved so much about the place. It had allowed a young Andin Ountahi to become Ben. Still, he had always appreciated the rather self assured, subtle, but still noticeable flamboyance of the old Viendan buildings. It was as if they didn't have to worry about being modern, as these old buildings knew they were in a class all their own.

And this building before him, it was almost as if someone had wanted to build three totally independent buildings, but in the exact same spot. It was something amazing to his eyes, the architectural equivalent of seeing some amazingly whimsical animal in its natural habitat. And the promise of secret passages had merely worked his interest into a fever pitch that radiated from every fiber of his being.

Adjusting his tie, straightening his meticulously treated hair, and tapping whatever dust was on his shoes on the front porch, Benjamin Tulven Guess happily utilized the knocker, relishing the sound of bronze hitting bronze. He knew that today would be an amazing day. The quality of his luck knew no bounds!

There was something like a highly domesticated commotion by the main door as though a very polite barbarian horde had dropped by for tea and light pillaging with the possibility of cake to follow. Shrikeweed considered the rather incongruous image of barbarians with visiting cards; an image which quite unbidden, became a fill fledged day dream in three shades of gore and two of hilarity.

"Good evening gentlemen," said the barbarian chief, "we will be your barbarian horde for today, so if you'll all stop with that unsightly screaming and running about and form a neat line we can have this over with before lunch." There was a general cessation of commotion. "Now then gentlemen, if you could see your way clear to arranging your skulls in a neat pyramid that would facilitate things immensely. . ."

Shrikeweed shook his head rapidly from side to side. "I'm clearly not getting enough sleep," he said, apparently to a lump on a nearby chair, "That was a very unconvincing barbarian horde. No pillaging at all. Very shocking. Generally I expect better of my dreams. Do you find, Ixbridge," he said, giving the lump a companionable prod with the toe of his shoe, "that the quality of your dreams deteriorates as you loose sleep?"

The lump rose slightly, like a miniature walrus, and blustered sleepily. "Wouldn't know 'bout the quality of my dreams. Some damn fool or other is always interrupting them." So saying, and with great majesty and purpose, Wilbur Ixbridge settled himself back into his chair, drew his blanket about him and promptly returned to his slumbered in what Shrikeweed regarded as a most offensive manner. By way of a small act of revenge he drank Ixbridge's tea with great relish and self satisfaction.

By this time, various porters appeared to be undergoing their mysterious rituals of greeting and there were indistinct sounds indicative of the taking of coats, the hanging of hats, and the receiving of gloves and other various and sundry items. There may have been the sound of an umbrella being deposited into a stand, though Shrikeweed could not be sure. Finally, there was the sound of approaching feet and a rather tall and well dressed man entered the room flanked by a small army of porters proffering drinks of various sorts. Shrikeweed stood approached the newcomer in what was, for him, a very open and friendly manner.

"Mr. Guess I presume?"

Ben watched in amazement as a dozen hands ushered him into the hallway, took his cane, dusted the shoulder of his jacket off, took his gloves, welcomed him into the house, gave him a gentle push towards the common room, welcomed him again for good measure, and now they had drinks! Ben pushed them away gently. "This is such a welcoming place! I feel like a cad to refuse such kindness, but I do not imbibe myself." He grinned and nodded to the industrious porters as he walked towards the room they appeared to be guiding him to.

The fellow who was stepping forward to meet him interested Ben. At first glance, all his features seemed to pop into vision, then fade into a general milieu of ... a rather attractive sameness. The smile, the eyes, the long fingers, all would easily be considered handsome in varying creeds of beauty, but added together, the young... old... well the man just was. Still, his face was pleasant enough and he knew who Ben was, so the young architect grinned and greeted the man with an extended hand, as the other fished through his breast pocket.

"I am at that! Benjamin Tulven Guess, architect specializing in the works of the early Viendan men who built this city, and humble servant to you. I must say, this house is absolutely spectacular! I must be lucky indeed for my name to come up when you needed one in my profession!"

Looking around, he saw the kind of comfortable, quiet majesty that such houses were furnished in. Large overstuffed furniture, dark wooden paneling, a fire place with a few bright embers, the dim lighting that fitted with these professional's aesthetic. He felt very at ease here. Finally finding what he was searching for, he brought out a flat silvered tin and popped the top open, revealing a neat row of black cigars.. "Would I be too presumptuous to request to smoke here? And would you like one yourself, Master..."

"Shrikeweed," said that gentlemen, bowing his head in the customary gesture of greeting. Extending a hand in greeting? he thought, somewhat puzzled as he observed the curious Mr. Guess. Is this some new informal gesture that is going about of late? First the absurd Mr. Sheepshead and now this fellow. What is the world coming to? The hand, however remained extended. For a moment he considered it and then, in a sudden fit of what he would later regard as very poor wit indeed, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a small paperboard rectangle.

"My card," he said with admirable blandness as he handed into the architect's hand. "And as to partaking of your cigar, why sir, have you no sense of smell?" He gestured expansively at the general space, as though to indicate the club as a whole, or possibly the very air. "Several of our esteemed members, my particular friend Mr. Wainscoting among them, indulge in that curious habit almost without cessation. At times one cannot see for the drifts of tobacco haze. So, carry on by all means."

So saying Shrikeweed returned to his seat with a convivial air and, given the presence of other empty chairs, and only the gently snoring Wilbur to intrude, he hoped the architect might catch on to the general relaxed atmosphere of the place. "Will you take some refreshment perhaps, Mr. Guess. I can recommend the cucumber sandwiches as very good, or possibly you might prefer a cold poached salmon or a few anchovies on toast? Or perhaps you would like to get straight to the heart of the matter as it were? They did tell you about the new secret passage I assume?"

Ben grinned widely at the grant to smoke the place up worse then a backed up chimney and proceeded to do so. Putting the tin in his mouth, he snatched the card up with one hand, placed it inside his breast pocket, came out with a card of his own, put his cigar into the other corner of his mouth, and reached into the tin with the other now free hand for a match. With a strike of said match on the tin, he was smoking happily. He placed the spent match in the tin, shut it, removed it from his mouth with one hand, took the cigar out of his mouth with the hand holding the card, and happily blew out a smoke ring. At the silent offer of a chair, he hopped into one and and turned to his side, reclining backwards in it, his legs flopping over one of the arms and his head tipped up to the ceiling.

"Her is my card, Master Shrikeweed!" So saying, he took the card and... well no hand was offered. Ah well, one must make do! The card ended up sticking in the slightly open mouth of the man as Ben stared up at the common room's ceiling. "Mmmm, that is some fine wood work on the ceiling panels, Master Shrikeweed! I must say that I should have been snooping around such a house far before you summoned me, for professional interest alone!"

Upon hearing of these amazing secret passages in the house, Ben flipped from back to stomach, chin in hand, staring intently at his host through his blackened spectacles. "My dear Master Shrikeweed, these secret passages are the reason I know myself to be the luckiest man in Vienda! Why, I myself would put all my savings on the dogs everyday if I didn't detest such gambling contests! Dreadful things. Nonetheless! I know I would profit! For to have such an opportunity come to my humble firm... well why are we sitting!"

So saying, he flipped himself around again and sprung out of the chair, straightened his jacket and proceeded to puff happily at his cigar. "And I shall have four cucumber sandwiches with a cup of coffee for the tour I beg you must give me of this magnificent structure! No cream, eight sugar cubes, if it is not too much to ask for."

"Coffee?" inquired Shrikeweed, lighting on the most outlandish portion of what must be regarded as a very outlandish speech. "I'm sorry. You want a cup of coffee while you look about the place? How very singular. I can imagine no end of difficulties should to elect to enter into so unwise an action. Consider sir, the eminent danger of scalding or the shocking possibility of consuming so restorative beverage surrounded by dust and with no convenient table. You would not perhaps to have a civilized cup of tea, or coffee if you so desire, before traveling diverse halls and looking in to curious and forgotten rooms?"

Helpfulness and directness of speech were not, it must be confessed, faults to which the Shrikeweedian character easily fell prey. He felt quite content in himself to know that the temptation to follow the primrose path of accommodation was altogether absent and that he would be fully capable of showing his circumlocutional virtues to their fullest.

" And what of your sandwiches, sir? Should we perhaps find a small table that may be easily lashed about your waist by the ingenious application of a system of ropes and diverse other items? I should hate to see them left behind to grow stale. Or perhaps we might take a servant along with us, to push a species of tea trolley behind us? Yes, that might be for the best. A tea trolley mounted on a series of springs and other similar contrivances so that it may remain level at all times. A terrible thing to consider that even for a moment the possibility of your sandwiches not remaining level."

He grinned his lopsided grin and sat back in his chair. He seemed to be giving a lot of tours of the Pendulum these days, and he was in no rush. Besides, it amused him to politely torment the architect in this fashion.

"One must always have the proper equipment for any exploratory expedition, you see, and the correct personnel of course. I am led to understand that mountain climbers in remote and picturesque locations take with them native guides and native porters -- presumably so that if they become lost they have someone to blame -- and I should like you to consider me to be acting in the former capacity. Or rather I shall be, immediately upon the completion of this pot of tea." He poured himself another cup of the tea Ixbridge had been drinking and downed it with a flourish. "Then I shall be at your service and will freely discuss with you all the coffered ceilings, glass panes, heretofore deserted passageways, interesting masonry, and labyrinthine room layout that you could possibly desire."

Benjamin stared at Shrikeweed as he spoke. He continued staring as he began yet another cup of tea. He kept staring. Finally, as if an an internal spring had snapped back into place, a grin spread across his face and he whipped out a pen and pad of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and began drawing like mad.

"Master Shrikeweed, you have hit upon an ingenious idea! Why should men such as ourselves be burdened to have to be at the beck and call of a trolley for us to enjoy such certain basic pleasures as refreshments while we are exploring?! But your original idea is far too complex! Springs and self righting mechanisms? Why sir, with properly recessed holders for such things as cups, glasses, jugs, and sandwiches, we could mount such a contrivance to the back of one of your indomitable porters! Such amazing help you have at your little club, I cannot say enough good things about them!"

Having finished, he presented Basil with an isometric technical drawing of what appeared to be half a trolley, the back shaped to fit to the contour of a back. On top were hollowed out spaces, each specified at different depths for different classes of drink vessels. "A small iron pot with a steel mesh cage within would provide adequate holding for embers, allowing us to enjoy whatever amenities we might like! I shall require three to five cabinet makers, an expert collier, and one or two tanners for the harnessing mechanism! Once preliminary design and testing are performed, we shall have a working model in not time!"

After a few minutes, his beaming face subsided down to a thoughtful grin. "Hmmm, but then on the other hand, by the time we have a functioning prototype, I would still be without my coffee and sandwiches and you would have almost certainly finished your tea."

Stroking his mustache a bit in cogitation, Ben finally sat down in the chair beside Shrikeweed, fishing out another cigar to replace the one that had been smoked to a useless stub in his excitement. He turned and smiled to the other man. "On second thought, I shall just have my sandwiches and coffee at the moment, if that can be managed. The destination will be met in roughly the same amount of time, either way."

"What?" said Shrikeweed, raising both eyebrow and tea cup in a gesture of amused confusion, "and miss out on the glorious opportunities to be provided by such a curious contraption? I dearly love a curious contraption." This was, rather surprisingly, perfectly true. Shrikeweed, whose general character was pragmatical to the point of ludicrousness had a fanatical devotion to nearly any newfangled sort of device, no matter how absurd or seemingly useless. His velocipede was a perfect example of this misplaced enthusiasm.

The Shrikeweedian bicycle was, like all member of its species, and two wheeled Contrivance -- and it rightly deserved so ostentatious a title -- supplied with a quantity of spokes, a brace of pedals, and the various other mechanical necessities. Unlike its fellows, however, it possessed a shocking large number of gears, sprockets, no less than two eternal chain drives, a curious gear-ratio changing device fashioned to look like a put out waterbird, a pneumatic braking mechanism, and various and sundry other inexplicable bits that went, whirr, click, sproing, twang, or plink. Needless to say, the thing was forever breaking down and, on one memorable occasion, exploded sending cogwheels flying to and fro and severely damaging an elegant cake that just happened to be passing by. Yet despite the very considerable body of evidence that the Contrivance was elegant mechanical death of wheels, Shrikeweed -- with all the myopic pride of the true enthusiast -- never ceased to sing its praises.

"Ah!" said he, returning to the present from a reverie of gears and cogwheels, "I have, perhaps, what might be thought of in the way of a compromise between your two most entertaining ideas. Seeing as though the Red Billiard Room -- that being the room where in I very accidentally discovered the celebrated secret passage -- is provided with a variety of chairs, tables, and related furnishings, I see no reason that your refreshment cannot be sent along there. You may then have the combined pleasures of never having to stray far from your coffee and being able to examine the entrance to the passage at your leisure. What say you?" With that, Shrikeweed extended a hand and began to signal one of the orbiting porters.

"This seems to solve all problems quite splendidly, Master Shrikeweed!" With this, Ben launched himself back out of the chair and strode happily through the hallway. About three minutes later, he came back, still smiling and with a steaming cup in his hand.

"You must forgive me, Master Shrikeweed. I was on my way to the Red Billiard Room when I realized I had no idea where on earth it was! I did, however find a trolley on my way there, and you must forgive me for walking with my cup, but I do have a peculiar need for the stuff."

So reporting back to Basil, Ben turned the cup back upwards into his mouth and downed the rest of it. "Hmmm, it appears I'm in a two cup mood for the day. I shall not deign for you to be present for any further deplorable behavior on my part and shall instead take my second cup with my sandwiches in the aforementioned room that you brought to light. Now I must ask if you object to talking and walking, Master Shrikeweed, as I would like to hear more about what you and your club has discovered about these secret passage ways. And if it is all fine with you, having this information exchanged as expeditiously and efficiently as possible will make my job less difficult and far more entertaining!" With another bow to his host he stood by the threshold in wait to be guided to the next point of interest.

It was a thoroughly bemused Shrikeweed that watched with mounting alarm and confusion the precipitous departure of the architect. He had not meant to turn him loose into the the wilds of the Pendulum alone and with little hope of the prospect of stimulating beverages. Indeed, he was fully prepared to take this curious fellow to see the room in question, to address his inquiries, and to generally provide any useful bit of Pendulumical information that might be wanting. However, if the man so desired to try his fortune who was Shrikeweed to deny him? Besides, the man had gone in quite the wrong direction and only by circumnavigating the world would be ever hope to find the room along the line of his current course.

Sighing, Shrikeweed sat back in his chair, nibbled a ginger cake which he did not precisely recall having asked for, and gazed upon a corner of the room with great philosophy. After a moment of thoughtful chewing, he turned to the still slumbering Ixbridge and said in an amiable tone: "A curious fellow that. Still, at least he got into the spirit of the place." Ixbridge snored lightly in what might possibly have been agreement. Another minute and another bite of the spurious cake passed by, and Shrikeweed found himself in very real danger of being bored. He contemplated a greenish book which lay upon the table where the cake had lately been, picked it up and began reading at random. From what he could tell it appeared to be a tale of intrigue and subterfuge incongruously shot through with a comic romance which might very well involve a clown, a pig farmer, two gentlemen of property, and a lady who enjoyed menacing the above mentioned personages with her parasol. It was not the sort of novel he generally indulged in -- novel reading being one of Shrikeweed's more odious vices -- but at least it hinted at being mildly entertaining. He read another line or two and was bout to settle in for the foreseeable future when, with great bustle and activity, the architect returned carrying a cup of coffee and looking in very high spirits indeed.

Shrikeweed listened to the breathless flow of conversation which poured out of the man like wine from a triple-throated decanter. "Oh, I have no strong objections to walking with coffee, merely a concern of the inconvenience of the whole prospect. And as to a little peripatetical conversation, I should like it of all things." So saying, he suited the action to his words, rose from his chair, performed an adjustment on his various garments, took another sip of tea and generally appeared to be ready to sally forth. "This club, Mr. Guess, can be a veritable labyrinth to those who have never been here before. I myself used to get quite lost looking for the minor cloak room when first I joined. I once ended up on the roof, though I cannot now tell you how I managed to contrive it. By the by, I must congratulate you on your discovery of a cup of coffee, most non-members never manage half so much. The porters here, though excellent fellows in their way, all seem to suffer from a curious malady whereby they find non-members of the club to be entirely invisible save when arriving and departing. None of the members appear to suffer so, but there you have it."

"Now then," he said, striding out in quite a different way than Mr. Guess had gone, "I believe that the Red Billiard Room lies in this general direction, unless they have moved it on me. So if you will step this way sir, we can be about it."

Ben gave a hearty laugh at Shirkeweeds admiration of his porter finding skills. "The discovery was completely accidental, Master Shrikeweed! While turning a corner, it was my ankle that met an oncoming trolley! You may notice that I walk with a slight limp." Indeed, Ben was trying to keep as little weight as possible on his left foot. "Nonetheless, the acquisition of coffee more than makes up for that slight inconvenience!"

"But enough about that! Please, Master Shrikeweed, while we are walking, convey to me all that you know about all the possible entryways, egresses, shafts, voids, attics, and basement compartments you and your club have been able to ascertain about this wondrous structure! Also, tell me where you found the man who did the black walnut moldings in the smoking room I found! It's the one with the dark green wallpaper with a clever pineapple motif."

Checking again to see if he had missed any coffee in his cup (none, to his slight disapointment) he looked back over to his guide. "And how long have you been part of this club, Master Shrikeweed? You seem to inhabit it as naturally as a hermit crab would inhabit his shell!"

"Its seems a lifetime I must admit, but I cannot have been a member much above five years. Yes, let me see." He cogitated for a moment, speaking half to himself and half to the architect. "Let me see, let me see. Yes, five years two months and, yes, eleven days have I been a member here. I joined shortly before I took my position at the Archives and since that time I've been here more or less every day for at least a few hours. My own dwelling is generally too small to indulge in the more spacious forms of relaxation such as billiards or say fencing -- do you play billiards by the by? -- and should I desire to have three of my acquaintances over for a poached salmon with cards to follow, one of us would be obliged to observe the proceedings from behind the umbrella stand or else to be lodged firmly in the armoire. Dining among discarded shoes and the forgotten coast of yore is not something I should like to see a guest of mine enduring. I exaggerate the smallness of course, but by far less that I should like."

He led the architect down a moderately long corridor and from thence up a flight of stairs into another exactly similar corridor. "Oh, you found the Pineapple Room did you? Curious things pineapples. Supposedly they represent hospitality or is it agreeableness? However it is, I've always found the pineapple to be a singularly odd looking fruit and why such a prickly thing should indicate either hospitality or agreeablness is something of a mystery to me. Still, very good eating in a pineapple. As for who did the wood work, I haven't the foggiest idea. I believe it came with the building. Seppings, our club secretary, might know or possibly the current Mr. Frogmorton."

As the clerk and the architect walked down the corridor, occasionally passing here a member about his business and there a porter or potted plant on their own errands, Shrikeweed told what he knew of the history of the building. He spoke of the eccentric professor -- whose name he could not just now recall but that he thought was something like Farthingale, or Pinafore, or was it perhaps now that he came to think of it not Crinoline? In any event the name was some sort of ladies' garment -- who had built the place. He mentioned in detail the constant building and rebuilding, the addings-on and modifications that had left the building a labyrinthine confusion and of the perpetual and heroic efforts of the Pendulum Club to make some sense of the whole thing. He mentioned the interesting brickwork, touched on the many coffered ceilings, the curios plasterwork, waxed poetic about the stained glass in the great dome under which the Pendulum itself, that noble object, swung.

He had just mentioned the wainscoting, "Walnut again, as you see", when they arrived at the room they had been seeking. Shrikeweed entered and looked about, making sure the room was not occupied by silent billiard players. "Well, Mr. Guess, here we are. The Red Billiard Room." It was indeed red; the woodwork here seemed to be of rosewood and mahogany, the wallpaper was the color of a fine claret, and even the baize of the great table was a cheerful scarlet. In shape, the room was an elongated octagon with windows at one end the door through which they had entered at the other. Between these two ends, and just a little abaft the table itself, was a section of the paneling that appeared to have gone missing; in its place was an opening a little narrower than a conventional door beyond which lay the passage the architect had come to see.

Ben listened in interest about all the amazing fixtures that called the Pendulum house home. He was able to pick out specific designers who could have developed different parts of the house, Strunk would have done a few of the rooms, the ceiling work was something that he was famous for, the plasters he was shown were obviously commissioned to the Benson and West design house, of which he was a disciple of when it came to his own designs.

"This house is a very who's who of early viendan designers, Master Shrikeweed! I feel I could spend weeks here an discover something new! As it is, I can place names to many of the room designs here, but these passageways... I cannot think of any documentation of a firm or singular architect or interior planner who specialized in, or indeed ever mentioned doing such additions. Though of course, secret passage ways are a dream come true for any architect! The mixture of skill in designing a passage way that would be usable but still hidden is quite an exciting challenge!"

Ben surveyed the Red Billiard Room. "Well Master Shrikeweed, it certainly lives up to the name. And I'm afraid I have never played billiards myself. Since being in the city, I have found my attention diverted by other such fancies." He grinned as he thought of such fancies. The wonderful, giggling, smiling, soft fancies of Vienda. They were normally far to short, but the pursuit of such fancies, at least for Ben, was half the enjoyment.

"An amazing passage way though! The stone work here," he motioned to the staircase "is not totally level with the paneling here," he said tamping down the hardwood floor with his foot. "It was certainly created as an afterthought. As to where it leads, oh I can't help but wonder!"

His grin grew ever wider, but he finally found the strength of will to sit down in a chair. "Now, I believe I shall now take my sandwiches and coffee, and we can get down to the proper reason that you and your club had me come calling!"

"Then I am sorry to disappoint you sir," he said poking his head into the mouth of the passage, "but alas, we know to where this passage leads; and that is into a butler's pantry. Why it should do this, and whether or not there might be more of such passages is largely the reason behind our consulting of you."

He looked around at the dim and dusty passage and tried to see it as through the eyes of the architect. In this he was only indifferently successful though he was now able to see the disparity between the floor levels with new appreciation. "We had thought that perhaps the disparity in the levels, slight as it is, was the result of the possible settling of the foundation. But then, none of us know much about architecture, which is odd when you come to think about it. Our interesting little society was founded by two architects you see and while we all have the greatest respect for the profession it is a curious fact that none of the present members belong to that illustrious profession."

"In the early days of the Pendulum, Mr. Grymesby, one of the architectural gentlemen to whom I refer, made some rather detailed drawings of building. These, along with what we could find of the original builders diagrams, I took the liberty of having brought into this room for your inspection." He gestured toward a number of rolls of paper lying on the billiard table. "Should you like to inspect them? Or would you prefer to explore this extremely diverting passage first?"

Ben laughed heartily. "Ah Master Shrikeweed, lucky though I may be, one must always practice disgression! Also, that name is one that has caught in the webs of my memory, though it is becoming hard to pin down! Grymesby, Grymesby," Ben stroked his chin and lit another cigar in hopes that the tobacco would help him remember. He also rather wanted another smoke, so he was hoping to kill two birds with one stone.

"Well, as it is, I shall have a look at these drawings, perhaps they might bring to light some of the thought that went into how such a place was built!" Ben gripped the bar at the side of the billiards room and spun himself around. Mid spin, Basil was able to hear him ask, "And if I may be so crass, might I inquire about when refreshments shall be arriving?" before spinning himself around some more. There was something about this place that was getting to Ben, and he had to admit that he rather liked it.

"Presently, I would imagine," said Shrikeweed collapsing into a chair. "The celerity of the Pendulum in these matters is legendary. Or rather, it would be if anyone bothered to include gentlemen's social clubs in the mytho-poetic imagination. Why, we're not even thought to be haunted by anything other than the most prosaic of departed spirits; and that's only by the grace of Boddingsly spilling a prodigious-great decanter of brandy some weeks ago."

It was not the pinnacle of wit, he would have been the first to admit, but his spirits had been oppressed of late and while the architect provided very excellent conversation, sprightly and utterly without any importance beyond an enjoyment of language, it was not quite enough to rouse him to his full potential. Resigning a long-held post did have a decidedly depressant effect it seemed and while he was simultaneously all afire to seize the opportunity before him, the present state of limbo was not in the least appealing. He longed for something to do, anything, and he cursed his complete lack of understanding in the field of architecture.

He observed the architect as he lit another cigar and took particular note of the manner in which he smoked. Enjoyment there was to be sure, but there was also a determination in puffing away that seemed to hint that the habit was not one of mere affectation. How he longed for the porter to arrive! He could do with a post of tea, and possibly a brandy or two.

"So, Mr. Guess: Have you found anything of interest?"