The Gambler felt a cold wind sweep through the continuum, and he turned around to see what could have caused it. The day was bright and warm, the blue as blue, the music as fair. But something was surely stirring in the vibes, and it wasn't good.

He saw a dog-eared mustachioed acne-ridden folkie sidling toward the barbecue, carrying a Japanese guitar. Something, he knew, something was wrong with the fellow--not quite right. Delacroix' eyes narrowed in thought.

With a few swift steps, he came up behind the folkie in the black slouch hat and dog-eared jeans jacket.

"Excuse me, friend....". The man turned, and Delacroix looked him in the eye.

"Have you seen the Heron?"

The man's jaw dropped as fast as the cheap Japanese guitar, as he grabbed for something in his pocket. Too slowly, as it happened; In a half-second Delacroix had closed with him, and muffled by their bodies the sound of the silvery tooled derringer going off against the man's chest was muffled, and drew no attention.

The Gambler stretched the now lifeless form out against a jacaranda tree, with its hat over its eyes, and the Japanese guitar laid over the entry wound. Just a hung-over folkie, sleeping it off.

He slipped the man's knife from the jacket pocket, and heard a crisp and dusty rustle. In the inner pocket, he found a piece of parchment, looking as ancient as Karnak, but undamaged by time. He looked briefly at the strange red and black lines engraved on it, and slipped it into his own pocket behind the second derringer.

He noticed, but ignored, a small card that fell from the dead man's pocket. Wet with blood, its type was obscured. ".....bson,Agent Provacateur and Bassi...", it read.

Robert Stonewall Delacroix turned and headed for the Albert L. Hansell, leaving the cold, sleeping form to its rest.