Monk's mind raced. He had envisioned all kinds of attack from Clacton, even the remote possibility of physical violence. He had not foreseen this insinuation. How should he deal with it? Laughter, anger, honesty? What would Clacton's next move be?

"Din't think I knew, did yer?" Clacton said with satisfaction. "Look down on the rest of us like we're beneath you. Not as clever as the great Mr. Monk! 'Oo don't know a damn thing when it comes ter the river. Come to 'ave Orme 'old yer 'and or yer'd fall in! Well, the rest of 'em might be stupid, but I'm not. I know wot yer doin, an' if yer don't want Farnham ter know as well, yer'd be wise ter let me 'ave a bit o' the price."

There was no time to weigh the consequences.

"I doubt Mr. Argyll will pay me for anything I've found out so far," Monk said dryly. "It looks like he's responsible for Havilland's death."

"Yeah?" Clacton's fair eyebrows rose. "But it's Sixsmith they've arrested. Now why would that be, d'yer think? A bit o' shiftin' around of evidence, mebbe?"

Monk was cold and tired, and his bones ached, but now he was assailed by fear also. He recognized both cunning and hatred in the young man in front of him. There was no loyalty to Durban or anyone else, just pure self-interest. Monk had no time to care why. Clacton was dangerous.

"Do you think you can find this supposed evidence?" he asked bluntly.

Clacton's eyes were bright and narrow. "Yer bettin' I can't?"

"I'll be happy if you can," Monk replied. "It's Argyll I want!"

For the first time Clacton was thrown off balance. "That's stupid! 'Oo'll pay yer?"

"Her Majesty," Monk replied. "There's a conspiracy behind Havilland's death. Thousands of pounds in the construction business, and a lot of power to be gained. Go and tell Mr. Farnham what you think, by all means. But you'd be better to go and get on with your job, and be glad you still have one."

Clacton was confused. Now he was the one needing to weigh his chances, and it angered him. The tables had turned, and he had barely even seen it happen.

"I still know yer crooked!" he said between his teeth. "An' I'll catch yer one day!"

"No," Monk told him, "you won't. You'll fall over yourself. Now get out!"

Slowly, as if still unsure whether he had another weapon left, Clacton turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Monk could see that as soon as he was in the main room his swagger returned.

Monk's tea was cold, but he did not want to go and get more. His hand was trembling, and the breath caught in his throat. Clacton's accusation had been worse than he expected.