The Pinkertons were half an hour late. It was going on one. The grandfather clock ticked away the minutes. He’d left the kitchen door open for them, but he’d left no outside lights burning—couldn’t risk their being seen. After the demonstration today, the speeches and the marching music, then the Red Shirts’ rampage through Brooklyn all evening—smashing up shops, shooting rifles—he wasn’t sure they’d dare venture into this part of town at all after dark.

He was just pouring another short brandy when they darkened the door of his library. He was startled. He had expected to hear them at the back door—door thunking shut, feet shuffling across the kitchen floorboards, voices muttering. But they had simply materialized without warning.

“Don’t just stand around,” he said softly, so as not to wake his family. “Come in.”

The two Negro men entered warily and sat on the edge of the chairs he had arranged in front of his desk. He got up heavily—realizing all at once how very tired he was, how late it was, how curiously old he was feeling tonight—and drew closed the French doors.

Both men wore rumpled city suits without ties—one blue, one brown. They held their slouch hats on their knees and fidgeted nervously. The one in the brown suit was smaller-framed, wore a moustache, and did all the talking. His name was Albert Tully.

“We’ve been up and down this town,” he said. “We’ve peeked into windows, listened at bedroom doors, praised the Lord in seven churches, got our hair cut eleven times, treated every brother in Brooklyn to free beer.” He cleared his throat. “We got the story, boss.”

Taylor briefly wondered whether to offer the Pinkertons brandy, but thought better of the idea. Still, he felt awkward sipping his own, so he let the snifter sit untouched on the desk. “Keep your voice down, please,” he said.

“Beg pardon, boss.”

“So tell me a story.”

Albert looked at the quiet one, who nodded and fingered his hat, turning it endlessly across his knee.

“It’s a bad story, boss. Raining sticks and stones out there tonight.”

“Go on.”

“There’s a high-yellow rabble-rouser behind it all,” he said.

Taylor nodded. “Manly.”

He shook his head. “Not Manly, boss. Another man. Stranger in town. Preacher fellow, goes by the name of Grant. Ivanhoe Grant.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You will.”

“What about him?”

“Stirring ’em up plenty.”

“They got guns?”

“More than you’d care to know.”

Taylor wondered what could persuade a man to inform on his own people. Surely, there was more to it than money. “Hasn’t your friend got anything to say for himself?”