"We get all kinds of stuff coming through here on a regular basis, old sport, things you wouldn't believe, even for the Nightside. Some silly sod put his soul up for auction just the other week, but it didn't make the reserve. Ah yes, I've seen it all come and go, and known more than my fair share of tears and curses. Property is the curse of the thinking classes. Now, Taylor, old boy; the Hall is of course surrounded by heavy-duty wards and protections at all times, protecting us from fire, theft, substitution, and any and all outside influences, and the whole place is guaranteed neutral ground by the Authorities themselves, and respected as such even by really hard cases like the Collector. As I understand it, the Hall was the cause of so many disputes by so many high rollers that the Authorities just stepped in and took over the business themselves, to make sure all deeds were kept and honoured ... So we should be safe enough..."

"But?" I said.

"But, today we're auctioning something rather special, even for us. That's why you're here, old thing. If everything does all go to Hell in a handcart, and I for one wouldn't be at all surprised if it did, you get to stick your hand up and say, Stop thief. What you do after that is your problem. Only don't look to me for help, because I shall have headed for the nearest exit. And don't look to the bears, either. They mean well, but they've only got sawdust where their balls should be. If all else fails, I suppose you can always use your famous gift to track down wherever the thief's taken it..."

"Why did you hire me?" I asked, genuinely interested.

Grave sniffed loudly. "Our insurance people insisted we hire someone, and you were the best... our budget could stretch to."