Smudged faces turned towards Daniel, sequins of perspiration tumbled from drooping eyebrows. He immediately recognized Robert Boyle and John Locke, Fellows of the Royal Society, but, too, there were certain gentlemen who tended to show up at their garden-gate at perverse hours, robed and hooded – as if they really needed to conceal their identities when the King himself was practicing the Art at Whitehall. Viewing their petulant faces by fire-light, Daniel wished they'd kept the hoods on. For, alas, they weren't Babylonian sorcerers or Jesuit warrior-priests or Druidic warlocks after all, but an unmatched set of small-town apothecaries, bored noblemen, and crack-pated geezers, with faces that were either too slack or too spasmodical. One of them was markedly young – Daniel recognized him as Roger Comstock, he of the so-called Golden Comstocks, who'd been a scholar along with Daniel, Isaac, Upnor, Monmouth, and Jeffreys. Isaac had put Roger Comstock to work pumping a bellows, and the strain was showing on his face, but he was not about to complain. Too, there was a small and very trim raptor-faced man with white hair. Daniel recognized him as Monsieur LeFebure, the King's Chymist, who'd introduced John Comstock and Thomas More Anglesey and others – including the King himself – to the Art, when they'd been exiled in St.-Germain during the Cromwell years.