From outside it was simply an ordinary-looking London pub, a place you'd have to be guided to more than once before you memorized its location. But if, by chance, an insider led you to the White Hart, you would have found yourself in the midst of a select gathering or writers, editors, scientists and interested laymen—drinking, swapping odd bits of information, and, like as not, listening to Harry Purvis' stories that are so strange, they can only be true.