Beside me, Harrington stirred again. I’d almost forgotten he was there. I could hear his breathing now, almost as labored as my own. I bent down to examine him—he was still only half conscious, and there was rather a lot of blood.

“Harrington needs a doctor,” I said.

“What about Spikely?” said Devine.

“We’ll call the police from the hospital. Here, help me get Harrington into Mr. Winter’s car.”

The next few hours were a blur. Triage; nurses; paperwork; Harrington’s wife, looking stunned at the news. Winter said I’d had a shock; told them about my heart condition; insisted someone examine me while they were dealing with Harrington. Meanwhile, Dr. Devine remained, in spite of my fervent protests (the garden gnome tucked under his arm), like a reluctant sentinel.

Finally, there was nothing to do but await the arrival of the police. They’d given us a little room in which to recover and gather our thoughts. Winter was looking uncomfortable, repeatedly checking his watch, while Dr. Devine sipped at a cup of lukewarm hospital coffee.

Until that moment, there had been no time to inspect the letter. Or maybe I had not wanted to: already those tumblers were falling, inexorably, into place. And I was so tired; I wanted to sleep till the next millennium.

What a terrible thing is wisdom, when it brings no profit to the wise! Winter must have known from the start the quarry we were hunting. And he had tried to warn me against pursuing it too ardently, for fear that, like the Manitou, it would turn and tear me apart.

He saw me holding the envelope. An envelope of cheap blue bond, of the kind that Harry had used, the ink a little faded with time, and yet still perfectly legible. But the handwriting wasn’t Harry’s. I’d so assumed that it would be that I almost didn’t recognize the childish, neatly lettered script. But I knew that writing very well. I’d marked his books too many times to fail to know it now. But what had Johnny Harrington to do with such a letter? And why would the young David Spikely have been writing to Eric Scoones?

“My mother found it,” Winter said. “Of course, she knew what it was from the start. I told you she was no stranger to blackmail. She tried to find out what he was worth; what she could get away with. Spikely had been cashing in ever since the Clarke affair. Ma didn’t see why she should have to clean old people’s houses when there was a better way. She got me to investigate. It tied in with what I was doing for you. And finally, I began to see a means of getting away from her.”

I took a painful breath. “I see.”