She raised her eyes. “From Mr. Dalgarno’s rooms. I am worried for him, Mr. Monk. I think there is fraud being practiced in the building of the new track for the railway, and I am very afraid he may be implicated, although I am certain he is innocent . . . at least . . . at least I am almost certain. Sometimes even good people yield to the temptation to turn the other way when their friends are involved in something wrong. Loyalties can be . . . misplaced, especially when you owe much that is good in your life to someone else’s generosity, and trust in you.” She looked at him intently, as if to judge how much he understood.

Some far memory stabbed him at the thought, but he kept his face blank. He could not tell her how acute was his feeling for just that kind of obligation, and the pain of failure.

“Is it a fraud from which Mr. Dalgarno might profit?” he asked levelly.

“Certainly. He is a junior partner in the company, so if the company made more money then he would also.” She leaned forward a fraction, just a tiny movement, but the earnestness in her face was intense. “I would give everything I have to prove his innocence and protect him from future blame, should there be any.”

“What is it exactly that you have overheard, Miss Harcus, and from whom?” There was something in the mention of railways that stirred an old memory within him—light and shadows, unease, a knowledge of pain from before the accident. He had rebuilt his life since then, created something new and good, recognizing and piecing together the facts of himself he had discovered, and the shards of memory that had returned. But the vast mass of it was lost like a dream, somewhere in the mind but inaccessible, frightening because it was unknown. What detection had shown him was not always pleasant: a man driven by ambition—ruthless, clever, brave, feared more than liked.

She was watching him with those intense, golden-brown eyes. But she was consumed by her own discomfort.

“Talk of great profit which must be kept secret,” she answered him. “The new line is due to be completed very soon. They are working on the last link now, and then it will be ready to open.”

He was struggling to make sense of it, to understand why she should imagine dishonesty. “Is it not usual to make a large profit from such an undertaking?”

“Of course. But not one that must be kept secret, and . . . and there is something else which I have not yet told you.”

“Yes?”

Her eyes searched his face minutely, as if every inflection, no matter how tiny, were of importance to her. It seemed she cared for Dalgarno so profoundly that her concern over his involvement was more important to her than anything else. A misjudgment of Monk could be a disaster.