The clerk addressed Tremont. “All manner of packets tie up on this part of the river, from Aberdeen on south and around west to Bristol. Many of them also call at Dover, though some passengers prefer to take the stage overland to Dover.”

Would Matilda subject Tommie to more than seventy miles of stage travel? “And from Dover?”

“Oh, my gracious,” the clerk said. “She could sail to Calais, of course, but also to Le Havre, Cherbourg, Amsterdam, Dieppe, the Channel Islands… If she sails from Dover…”

“She’s gone for good,” Harry said. “If she’s gone to Dover. She might well be headed for Yorkshire. Just when you think a woman’s become predictable, she surprises you.”

“Where is the porter who took her luggage?” Tremont asked as a well-fed elderly woman in weeds and black bonnet stepped up to the reception desk. She’d pinned back the veil of her bonnet, probably the better to glower at all and sundry.

“The porters assemble at the far end of the veranda, sir, and come when summoned by the doorman. No telling which one took any particular guest’s luggage.”

“I’ll have a word,” Harry said, tipping his hat to the older woman and sauntering out the door.

“Pity the lady if she is married to that one,” the clerk muttered, “but I’m afraid I cannot help you, sir.”

“She is married to him,” Tremont said, “but there’s hope.” He bowed to the glowering woman and stepped out into the malodorous cold of the winter day. The sense of activity was relentless, on the walkways, the veranda, and the street. Somewhere in this morass of bustling humanity was somebody who’d caught a glimpse of Matilda and Tommie, somebody who’d watched them climb into a stage coach or…

“No luck,” Harry said, sending a scowl in the direction of the loitering porters. “The fellow who took Matilda’s bags was subsequently tasked with taking a load of trunks to some Mayfair hotel. He might not return to his post until tomorrow.”

“Then Matilda and Tommie did not go far,” Tremont said. “If they left only an hour ago, and the porter had time to see them to their destination and then return for another assignment, they did not go far.”

One of the porters watched them, though clearly neither Tremont nor Harry had any bags to be carried. Something about the man looked familiar, as if—

“The porter coming back quickly doesn’t tell you anything,” Harry said. “Tilly could have gone a quarter mile down the wharves or two streets over to a coaching inn. She’s gone, and she learned from me how to hide her tracks. She’ll speak with an accent—Dorset or Yorkshire, one distinctive enough to leave an impression, but not an impression of the Matilda you’re searching for. She’ll walk differently and maybe use an alias.”