“No, Mr Holmes, I don't think you make too many mistakes. Anything other than the car you want me to be getting on?”

“That is the first order of business, I think. Oh, but Hammett? You saw my wife tonight. Well enough to recognise her again?”

“Girl with glasses, her height, hair, and posture—she doesn't exactly fade into the crowd. But if she was sitting, had a hat on? I don't know.”

“Quite.” Holmes bent his head for a moment in thought before he slid two fingers into the note-case, this time drawing out a photograph—or rather, a square neatly snipped from a larger photograph. Reluctantly (Reluctant to show it to me? wondered Hammett. Or to show he had it at all? The Englishman seemed a person who would not reveal his affections readily.), Holmes slid it across the table for Hammett to examine.

It was of a young woman on a street, clearly unaware of the camera. Her head was up, showing a determined chin and graceful neck. The day had been bright but not sunny enough to make her spectacles throw shadows or reflections, so that behind the wire frames were revealed a pair of light-coloured eyes. Her hair was fair and gathered on top of her head in a way Hammett hadn't seen in years—and hadn't seen on the woman getting out of the car the night before.

“She's cut her hair since this was taken?”

“Yes,” Holmes said, with a trace of regret that made Hammett's mouth curve again, although he did not comment.

“And her eyes—blue or green?”

“Blue. And to American ears, she speaks with a pure English accent.”

Hammett handed the photograph back across the table. “Okay,” he said, making it a question.

Tucking the photograph back into its hold, Holmes said, “I showed you this because I think it possible that Russell will decide to travel in the same direction you are going, sometime in the next day or two. It would be as well if she didn't take too much notice of you.”

“I hear you.” Hammett put the money into his own wallet, dashed the last contents of his glass down his throat, and stood up to shake the hand of his new employer. “Mr Holmes, this has been an interesting evening.”

Grey eyes looked into brown, understanding each other well.

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

At that hour, with only the occasional vehicle to impede a walker's straight line, Holmes' long stride took him back to the hotel in twenty minutes—and that included doubling back twice to ensure that he had no one else on his heels. The doorman was dozing in his corner, the man on the desk jerked around, startled, at this late entrance, and the dim sea of posts and chairs that made up the lobby resembled a theatre after the curtains had fallen.