“That’s reasonable.” Catherine glanced over at Owen. “Mr. Smith?”

He pulled away from the table and made his way across the room. His face was ashen, his eyes shining bright as coins. A thought occurred to Catherine, and she told him, “You needn’t look yourself, if it pains you.”

“No,” he murmured. “It would take you and Mr. Nolan that much longer to go through it all. You’ve already done so much on my behalf—I truly am grateful.”

Catherine bit her lip. She was at once overwhelmed with pity, caught in the fear that there was nothing to find, whether it be Owen’s obituary or the timepiece. She set her fingertips to a cabinet drawer. She pulled it open, dust floating free.

They piled papers on a table and worked through them in a meticulous manner. By week, by month, by year. The obituaries were organized in narrow columns, and Catherine skimmed over the lines, wondering who’d set the type, who’d made the impressions. It was important work, the neatly printed pages telling of so many lives.

From the hallway came the sound of familiar footsteps. Catherine glanced up just as Spencer Carlyle opened the door, looking in at the three of them. “Catherine,” he said. “I thought I saw you come up here.”

She rose from her chair and headed over to him. He closed the door a little as he stepped inside. A nearby lamp on the wall cast light over his face, his blue eyes bright in the glow. “Why aren’t you downstairs?” he asked. And then: “Is something wrong?”

She swallowed hard. “Mr. Ainsworth thinks I’ve stolen from him, is all.”

Spencer frowned. “And why is that?”

Catherine set a hand on the door, shutting it the rest of the way. She spoke in a whisper. “You know the timepiece he’s been looking for? He was given information it was in the public cemetery. He sent me to retrieve it, but—it wasn’t there, Spencer.” She could hear her voice rising and took a slow, steadying breath. “He doesn’t believe me, so I have until the end of the day to hand it over, or he’ll turn me out of doors.” She stared at the light within the lamp. “It’s not nearly enough time to look. Even if I find it, perhaps he’ll want to get rid of me anyway, if he thinks I’m keeping it from him now.”

Spencer leaned back against the wall. “Do you wish me to speak with him?”

Her eyes flashed to his. Hope flared in her heart like a struck match. “Oh, Spencer, would you? I’d be much obliged.”

“I can’t say he’ll listen to me.” He peered around her, as if only now noticing Guy and Owen. “Who are they?”

“Friends of mine.” She looked over at their table. The boys sat across from each other, heads ducked, papers in front of them. “They wanted a look into the archives. We’ll put everything back in its place.”

Spencer said, “That’s Guy Nolan, isn’t it? I recognize him.”