Warming his feet by the crackling fire one pleasant autumn afternoon, Fenwick had a sudden uncomfortable premonition when a knock sounded at his door. Reluctantly leaving the fire's light and heat, he stood, marched down the hall, and opened the door.

"Not you again," Fenwick said testily.

A dark robed figure stood in the doorway. In spite of the bright afternoon sun, the light did nothing to illuminate the man's face, hidden beneath a loose hood. From the depths of ebony where his face should have been, a voice spoke: "An urgent matter requires your immediate personal attention," it said, and a bony hand stuffed a crumpled piece of paper into Fenwick's hand. With that, the figure was gone.

Fenwick sighed wearily. What now? He closed the door, opened the note, and read it to himself:

The first three letters are a way to rest;
The next, one uses the most.
Four more make a defect or blemish;
To the next two flee like a ghost!
Let no one see you or hear you come;
Secretly make your way.
Beware the beckon of the last four letters
That tempt you to delay.

"Well," muttered Fenwick. "Here we go again."