The next morning found me riding in a carriage down Main Street with Sinclaire sitting next to me; Amos and Brin were on the driver's seat. We were on our way to check out this house and the good doctor himself, although he didn’t know that. The roads were wide and lacked sidewalks, but the neighborhood was quite attractive. When we arrived, I saw the house was classic Georgian Architecture which left it in desperate need of a porch to overlook the generous front lawn.

The drive was circular with a straight leg leading back to the carriage house and barns; basically it was shaped like an ‘h’ – only reversed so that the straight leg ran up the right side of the house. It was brick of course, clay being quite easy to come by in this neck of the woods.

My two new business friends and the good doctor himself stepped out to greet us before we had a chance to dismount. I exited the coach and helped Sinclaire to exit gracefully while they waited.

“Your driver can take the carriage around to the side; there’ll be water for the horses. He can wait in the servants quarters, they will have food and drink for him there.” The doctor offered in a clipped Bostonian accent.

I nodded to Amos and he nodded back; he just sat there patiently while introductions were made all around and we entered the house. I heard him move the cart out as soon as we were gone; my guy was good. The first thing I noticed was that the front door lacked a foyer; now Missouri doesn’t get quite as cold as Nebraska but it does get cold enough to qualify for a foyer. This was something which could be rectified with a small bit of construction.

We started off with a tour of the house, which was beautifully made and decorated. It seems a lot of money had been spent on this place and I began to wonder what the hell had happened to cut off this good man’s cash flow. There were a total of six bedrooms all on the second floor, each fair-sized with full closets and sitting space. The first floor had the surgery, the study and then library on the left hand side; the right hand side was the parlor, dining room and then the kitchen. All in all it was about what I needed down here in St. Charles.

We retired to the parlor for beverages and snacks. Fortunately someone in the household had some common sense about men so instead of cakes we got finger sandwiches. They were good sandwiches, too - we had a choice of cheese, pickle, egg or ham finger sandwiches. I personally had two of each, the pickle sandwich was hands down the best.

After the small talk had ended I made the proper outhouse excuses and went to find Amos and get the scoop on the state of the outbuildings. Bless the cook’s soul, Amos had the same sandwiches we had and she even gave Brin a bone; this one was a keeper. I thanked Amos for his good work and told him it would be a while longer. He seemed OK with that so I went back to the parlor to work a deal.

The very first thing I did was dismiss the two local businessmen. They seemed reluctant but I reminded them that my reputation for dealing with things openly and honestly was as well deserved as my reputation in other areas. I told them that if we made a deal they’d still get their finder's fee although the amount remained fluid until we decided on the structure of the deal. That, with a hard glare, was enough to get them moving. It left just myself, Sinclaire, Dr. Browne and his wife in the room.

Dr. Browne and I excused ourselves to the study while the ladies continued to converse in the parlor. He started with an offer of a drink and I do find it hard to pass up a free bourbon; sadly it wasn’t a good bourbon. We sat and drank for a moment and when he lit his pipe I felt free to have a cigarette while we negotiated.

I bluntly asked his ideal price for the property and naturally he came back with an absurd figure in the current market but it gave me a place to start. I pulled my bottle of Byrne’s bourbon out of my satchel and gave us each another measure, since it seemed that even discussing selling this home was a point of extreme stress for him. After the third pour I could see that the liquor was starting to calm him so I started up my spiel.

We chatted for a bit and I managed to get him to tell his story. It came out in bits and pieces at first but at a certain point the dam just broke and he told the entire story. It was a story of the hard luck of the upper-class. He was the third son of a wealthy Boston family who had taken it in the shorts during the crash of 1819, monthly stipends for relatives had dried up first and what businesses that hadn’t folded already were on life-support.

He had built this house in 1815 to keep his new wife happy out here on the frontier and the money came from his life savings, her dowry and the wedding gifts they had received. Life had been wonderful and they were the toast of the town, until it turned awful and most of his work was done on credit now. There were no buyers for a house of this sort and the bank was about to call the loans in, he was in desperate straits. So I recruited him to Rulo.

The deal was pretty straightforward: an office on Main Street and a house on a large lot, though initially it would just be a small cabin which would eventually turn into his office as building progressed. At the same time I would clear all of his debts here so he could start again.

He was a bit stunned by the offer and confusion reigned in his eyes. I told him we'd wait while he talked to his wife about it but that I was leaving in the morning and the deal would leave with me.