Yes, the maundering flibbertigibbet abruptly elected to relocate to England, so he might follow more closely the sundry devilments of the genuine Spring-heeled Jack. Much to our astonishment and elation, the explosive issue of François Boileau suddenly ceased to be.
Just as the wise gardener would not attempt to follow a gopher into its burrow, I would wait until Compost resurfaced, and spring my trap on solid ground. It pained me to leave with Compost ranging freely and untrammeled, but I had long ago learned to refrain from pursuing Compost through London's labyrinthine imbroglio. Contrarily, the notion of a vast, malignant cabal of spellbound automatons exercising dominion over this troubled planet pulled the rug from under my belief in a just and rational universe. And yet, my conception of such sorcery had remained that of the odd curiosity, the occasional pocket of the unexplained existing in the unlit corners of an otherwise comprehensible world. Valkusian had opined for years upon the esoteric potency of these abstruse mystical arts and their practitioners, and I had observed the singular power of occult conjurings with my own eyes. Powerless! Confound it all! With all my advanced science, to be incapable of thwarting the encroachment of this crude magic was intolerable. "Just as the wise gardener would not attempt to follow a gopher into its burrow, I would wait until Compost resurfaced, and spring my trap on solid ground."
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