Rathbone swore, which was an extremely rare occurrence. "We are losing this case, Monk," he said miserably. "If I'm not extremely careful, I shall end up convicting Sixsmith whether I wish to or not, and Argyll will walk away free. The thought makes me seethe, but even if I destroy half the decent men around Argyll-the navvies, the foremen, and the bankers, as well as Sixsmith himself-I still can't be sure of getting him. If Rose Applegate could have persuaded Argyll's wife to testify to anything that would have made her father's story more believable, we might shake him."

He sighed and looked at Monk, the dread of failure burning visibly inside him. It was in the nature of his profession to gamble on his own skill, and he could not always win. But when it was another man who was going to pay, it clearly cut to the bone of his self-belief. It was a pain he was evidently not used to, and his confusion was naked for a moment in his eyes.

Monk wished he could help Rathbone, and knew it could not be done. There are places each man walks alone, where even friendship cannot reach. All he could do was wait, and be there before and after.

"I'll go back to looking for the assassin," he said, turning to go.

"If you don't find him in the next couple of days, it won't matter," Rathbone told him. "I'd rather let Sixsmith go and drop the case altogether than convict an innocent man." He smiled thinly. "My foray into prosecution is not conspicuously successful, it seems!"

Monk could think of nothing to say that was not a lie. He gave a very slight smile and went out, closing the door softly.

He was within half a mile of the Wapping station when Scuff appeared out of the gloom. The boy was soaking wet and looking inordinately pleased with himself. He ran a couple of steps to keep up with Monk. "I done it.'" he said without the usual preamble of greeting.

Monk looked at him. His small face was glowing with triumph under its outsize cap. Monk had still not managed to tell him it needed a lining. "What did you do?" he asked.

Scuffs expression filled with disgust. "I found where the killer lives, o' course! In't that wot we gotter do?"

Monk stopped, facing Scuff on the footpath. "You found out where the man who shot Mr. Havilland lives?" The thought was overwhelming. Then he was furious. "I told you not even to think about it!" His voice cut across the air, harsh with fear. A man who would shoot Havilland in his own stables would not think twice about strangling an urchin like Scuff. "Don't you ever listen?" he demanded. "Or think?"