My London diary has been stolen. While I hope this isn't an omen of the new century, it does somehow seem like an appropriate culmination of the past two months.

I had been looking forward to the Drakesheath Manor All Hallows' gala, not only for the opportunity it would afford to investigate the interior of what some believed to be the dark heart of the town, but also for the chance to enjoy the company of Dr. Van Hasding and his charming daughter in a more light-minded social setting than those under which we normally meet. On the 12th of October, however, hostilities broke out afresh between Britain and the Afrikaners and I immediately began to worry for my good friend Doyle, who, I was sure, would once again jump at the chance to defend his beloved Empire. This fear was confirmed a week later when I received a letter from his mother begging me to return to London where I might, as she put it, "be of assistance in pounding some manner of sense into his brilliant, but stubborn head."

I left Drakesheath almost immediately, delaying only to leave my equipment and notes with the Van Hasdings, and to arrange a meeting with them later in December, when they would be passing through London en route to the Netherlands, where Miss Van Hasding has certain legal matters to finalise concerning her late mother's estate. Aside from a small suitcase containing a few changes of clothing, I took with me a brand new journal bought specifically to record my London adventures, as I was quite convinced that the following weeks, filled with intense conversations between myself and Doyle, would be well worth recording.

And how right I was! Over the course of two months, we spent more time together than at any point in our long relationship, much of it engaged in deep and earnest discourse -- some of it regarding the legitimacy of the South African war, but much of it airing our differing views on the paranormal. At the end of each day, I would record our exchanges while the words were still fresh in my memory.

During this time, I have also had the opportunity to spend more than a week with Fredric Meyers, who has taken over as the Society's president following Crooke's resignation due to an excessive work-load. He is a racounteur of the first order and his telling of The Case of the Scratch on the Cheek, which he so famously investigated in 1876, included such vivid details and impressions that it lifted the hairs on the back of my neck.

Lest it appear that I spent my entire time in London in conversation, I hasten to reveal that I have also attended my share of concerts, soirees, and plays, including T. W. Robertson's David Garrick, which opened the newly completed Wyndham's Theatre.

In actual fact, this has been an extremely eventful visit, although admittedly the serious purpose of trying to convince Doyle to stay out of this foreign war remained its core purpose. Both singly and together, his mother and I argued and pleaded with him ("There are thousands of fools who can fight," his mother said heatedly at one point, "but only you could create Sherlock Holmes!") We even employed the running newspaper accounts following the capture of The Morning Post's correspondent, Winston Churchill, as a cautionary tale -- a tale which turned on us when the young man made his escape and became a national hero, thereby fuelling Doyle's resolve and perhaps even directly influencing his decision to volunteer, which he did on Christmas Eve.

So many conversations, so many events, all dutifully recorded and, sadly, now irretrievably lost.

This being a Tuesday, and me being a frugal man by nature, I had taken advantage of the Missionary Museum's free hours to drop in and examine some of the artifacts they had collected from my own homeland of Australia. From there, I wandered down Moorgate to Cheapside with the intention of posting a letter to Dr. and Miss Van Hasding at the General Post Office. This duty accomplished, I then headed toward St. Paul's Cathedral, when a young man bumped into me. It was an uneventful encounter, and while he appeared to be of the lower classes, he excused himself nicely enough and went on his way. It was only a moment or two later that I realized my right coat pocket, where I kept my journal, was significantly lighter and, upon checking I realized I my precious book had become the victim of a rather skilled fingersmith -- skilled, but bound to be disappointed when he comprehended how little his prize was worth in terms of intrinsic value.

But oh, how much it was worth to me.

This is all I can bear to write at the moment. Over the course of the next few days, I will attempt to recreate my lost record, but memory is a faithless servant at the best of times, and outright dishonest at the worst. All I have is this photo I took earlier today and developed in the Society's dark room this evening.

Still, chin up and all. In a few days. the Van Hasdings will be arriving and after spending some time in the city we will then return together to Drakesheath. This cheers me much more than I might openly admit.

Cheapside in the afternoon.