She breathed out very slowly, her face very pale. “Thank you. Thank you very much. But . . . but what about . . .”

“I have searched exhaustively in London and in Liverpool, where the company was based earlier, Miss Harcus,” he said. “And I can find no evidence of fraud at all.”

“None . . .” She started, her voice high, her head moving very slowly in a gesture of denial, disbelief.

“A little oversharp profit on certain deals,” he conceded. “But that is common.” He stated it with authority, realizing only afterwards that he was speaking from memory. He was not guessing, he knew. “And everything was in the company name, not that of Mr. Dalgarno. He is a successful businessman, and as honest as most.”

“Are you certain?” she pleaded, her face flooded with amazement and dawning joy. “Absolutely certain, Mr. Monk?”

“I am sure there is nothing whatever to raise doubt as to his honor,” he repeated. “You may rest in confidence that his reputation is in no peril.”

She jerked back, her eyes wide. An onlooker might have thought he had insulted her from the disbelief in her face, which seemed almost like anger. “Rest?” she said fiercely. “But the crash! What about the danger of another?”

“The Liverpool crash had nothing to do with the track,” he said patiently. “It was driver error, with a possibility that the brakemen also were—”

Now she was angry, flinging her hand back, almost as if to strike the person behind her. “What—all of them?” she challenged. “They all chose the same moment to make a mistake?”

He caught her wrist. “No, they don’t mean that. They mean it was one of them, and possibly the others panicked and didn’t know how to right it.”

“Are you saying that Baltimore and Sons was innocent?” she demanded. “Always? Then and now?”

“Innocent of the crash, yes.” He heard his own voice, and he sounded uncertain. Why? There was nothing to implicate Nolan Baltimore in the Liverpool crash or in the fraud that had ruined Arrol Dundas. It was his own emotions, his own shadow of guilt, trying to place the blame on someone he did not care about.

She took a step towards him. Now she seemed almost excited. Her eyes were bright, her body tense, her cheeks flushed with pink. She put her hands on the front of his chest, closing her fingers tightly over the edges of his jacket. “Is there proof of their innocence?” she said hoarsely. “Real proof? Something that would stand in a court? I have to be sure. An innocent man was convicted once before.”

He felt his own body tighten and the blood pound in his veins. He clasped her wrists. “How do you know that?” he said between his teeth. He was startled to find that he was shaking.