She paused, eyebrows raised. She didn’t think the pause to be more than a moment, but in that time Guy’s blush turned a deeper scarlet, and he said, “No? Yes, as I thought. Good night, Miss Daly.” He looked away, fixing his attention on the fireplace.

She went and sat down in the armchair opposite him. “I’m not very tired.”

He leaned forward. A grin spread across his face. “Nor am I.”

Taking up the poker, he nudged at the burnt logs, sending white flakes of ash into the air. He sighed and set it back down. As he did, his gaze flicked up to the painted miniature on the mantelpiece. “Miss Daly, I’ve been wondering.” He looked over at her. “Your family… are they…? Do you not have…?”

Catherine swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. “I have a family.”

“Oh. It’s just—you’ve never mentioned them.” He bit his lip and added anxiously, “I’m sorry. Am I being too familiar?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, it’s only… They’re out in the country. I came to the city to work at the Chronicle, and I haven’t been home in the two years since.”

Guy tilted his head. The fading light of the fire played across his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “You must miss them.”

“Yes. Terribly, sometimes. I write almost every week.” She looked to the mantel clock, watching the slow movement of the minute hand. “My older brother, John, is often away from home too. He works in the mines. And there’s my younger sister, Anne. She’ll be fourteen now.” She could see their faces in her mind’s eye as clearly as the framed painting beside the clock.

“I had two older brothers,” said Guy. He nodded to the painting. “That’s Robert. He was the eldest. Then Wilfrid, but we haven’t any pictures of him. They passed away from fever along with my mother when I was small.”

Catherine murmured, “I’m sorry.” She’d printed death notices for whole families struck down by fateful accidents or disease. It was not an uncommon plight, but that didn’t make it any less sorrowful.

“Thank you. I can’t really remember them.” He leaned back in his chair. “My father and I get on well. Everything I know about our trade, I learned from him.”

The last of the flames flickered out, leaving them in near darkness. Behind Guy’s chair, light from the street shone in through the window, the pattern of the lace curtains casting a shadow over the far wall.

Something about the encroaching night made Catherine quiet her voice to a whisper. “Do you think we’ll find something out at the university?”

“Sydney seems certain,” Guy replied. “And I suppose they do have more knowledge at their disposal.”

“But no one there has found it.” Catherine twisted her hands in her lap. “What if…? What if Mr. Smith was murdered for it?”

Guy’s eyebrows went up. “Do you think it belonged to him?”

“Why else would it be said to be buried in his grave?”