She was looking at Runcorn. Her face in the morning light was less tired than the first time they had seen her, but it still held the same sadness at the edge of her smile and behind the intelligence in her eyes.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, ma'am," Runcorn apologized, looking back at her steadily. "But we've looked into the matter further, and it seems very much like the man you saw could have shot Mr. Havilland. There's a man arrested for hiring him coming to trial soon, but if we don't find a good deal more information, he might get off."

"Of course," she said quickly. "You must catch the man who did it, for every reason. I have no idea where he went, except towards the main road. I imagine he would find a hansom and leave the area as fast as he could."

"Oh, he did, ma'am. We traced him as far as Piccadilly, and the East End after that," Runcorn agreed. Not once did he glance at Monk. "It's just that the cabbie didn't look at him except for an instant, and he isn't all that good at description. If you could remember anything else at all about him, it could help."

She thought for several moments, withdrawing into herself. She gave a little shiver, as if thinking not only of the cold of that night but now also of what had taken place less than a hundred yards from where she had stood. Runcorn's admiration of her was clear in his eyes, but it was the vulnerability in her, the sadness, that held him. Monk knew that because he had seen a flash of it before, and knew Runcorn better than he realized. There was a softness in Runcorn he had never before allowed, a capacity for pity he was only now daring to acknowledge.

Or was it Monk who had only just developed the generosity of spirit to see it?