Cochrane tucked the Webley into the heavy leather belt around the waistband of his trousers. He had been careful to cover his tracks, but the Order had eyes everywhere, even on their own people. Only a few short hours ago he had received the missive bearing the Dean's wax seal. He was no longer welcome at the university but there were more important matters to attend to than clearing up that bit of confusion. A second letter, coded and bearing the rose cross, had awaited him in his office.

He was growing concerned that he no longer enjoyed the support and fraternity that had benefited him for the best half of his life. Not many left the Order on good terms and he had no intention of letting this unfortunate misunderstanding linger. But the people he was planning on meeting with had become increasingly paranoid and reclusive in recent months and he was taking no chances.

Gaslamps flickering and lights shining through the windows from the apartment block reflected off the rain soaked streets.  Evening showers were the norm this time of year and the cold damp of winter was beginning to sink in. He pulled the collar of his heavy traveling coat up against the chill and, setting out toward downtown, reveled in the solitude of the long walk before the noise of the handsome cabs and public houses began to disturb the evening quiet. The chill damp night turned to warmth and noise as he entered The Fox and Feather, music being played far too loud for the tight quarters by the house's pianoman and singer successfully drowned out the din.

Cochrane was short and heavily built, broad shouldered and stout.  He wore his greying hair close cropped under a fashionable bowler hat. Whiskers neat over a heavy jaw with a hawkish nose and piercing blue eyes. He was sporting a leather traveler's coat in fine condition despite years of use, wearing gloves and carrying a walking stick, the trappings of a man of some means.

Entering the alehouse, all was as Cochrane had learned from the coded letter - the bustling crowd, the music too loud to allow for eavesdropping agents, the lean and well-muscled porter; he only hoped that the doorman wouldn’t treat him like a lunatic when he shouted at him over the cacophony:  “Visibilia ex invisibilibus.”  He was naturally well practiced in Latin and the words came easily and unaccented.

With a smirk the doorman replied: “Potenta scienta est.”  Clapping him on the shoulder his arm taut with supple musculature, the doorman pulled him into a close fraternal embrace: “They are in the back waiting for you my brother. Momento mori”