“If you will give me your address?” he asked.

She fished in her reticule and brought out two cards, offering them to him in her gloved hand. “I'm afraid I did not think of a letter of authority...”

She looked embarrassed. “Have you any paper?”

He went to the desk, opened it and took out a plain white sheet of notepaper, a pen, ink and blotting paper. He pulled out the chair where she might sit. While she was writing he glanced at the cards she had given him and saw that the home was on the borders of Mayfair, a very acceptable area for the gentry. The business was south of the river on the Waterloo Road on the edge of Lambeth.

She finished the letter, signed it, blotted it carefully and handed it to him, looking up at him anxiously while he read it.

“It is excellent, thank you.” He folded it, reached for an envelope and placed it inside, to keep it from becoming soiled, then put it in his pocket.

She rose to her feet again. “When shall you begin?”

“Immediately,” he replied. “There is no time to be lost. Mr. Stonefield may be in some danger or difficulty but still able to be rescued from it.” “Do you think so?” For a moment hope flared in her eyes, then reality returned, and with it renewed pain. She turned away to hide her emotion from him, to save them both embarrassment. “Thank you, Mr. Monk. I know you mean to offer me comfort.” She went to the door, and he only just reached it in time to open it for her. “I shall await news.” She went out and down the step into the street, then walked away, northwards, without looking back.

Monk closed the door and returned to his room. He put more coal on the fire, then sat down in his armchair and began to consider the problem and what he knew of it.