‘It’s room service,’ he said. ‘You still want that champagne?’

‘Why not?’ asked Collis, the words sticking in his throat.

Theodore said to the boy, ‘Two bottles of champagne, will you? And as quick as you like.’

Then he quietly closed the door, and stood there in the absurd celestial whiteness of the St Nicholas bridal suite, too fat, too untidy, too tired, and too regretful; unable to speak even one word that would give Collis comfort.

After a while, he sat down, his head lowered and his hands clasped together, and wished to God that he was back in Sacramento.

At first, Collis felt a sense of loss that was smashed and fragmentary; as if a framed daguerreotype of Hannah had been accidentally trodden on and broken. Because he hadn’t seen her dead with his own eyes, he couldn’t imagine that she was really gone. All he could picture in his mind was the way she had sat in the carriage at the Front Street levee, under her lemon-yellow parasol, one hand raised in a sad goodbye.

Only when the effects of four bottles of champagne began to wear off did he begin to understand that the broken frame was empty now, and that the daguerreotype had been taken away from him. He could search the world for the rest of his life, and he would never find Hannah again.

He went through a day of total grief and misery, during which Theodore stayed well away from him. He walked across town to the shore of the East River, and sat for an hour on the grassy knoll at the foot of Fifty-third Street, smoking and looking out at the Whitehall boats and the sailing smacks.

A little after four o’clock in the afternoon, he took a cab to Washington Square, to Henry Browne’s house. He felt like talking to somebody friendly, somebody who would be prepared to sit back and let him talk his grief for Hannah out of his head and out of his heart. He asked the cab to wait while he climbed the steps of Henry’s Greek Revival house and knocked at the door.

It was almost a minute before anyone came to answer, and then the door was opened just four inches to reveal a thin, sallow, suspicious face.

‘Yes?’ asked a vinegary voice.

Collis raised his hat. ‘I’m looking for Mr Henry Browne. Does he still live here?’

‘Yes. Who are you?’

‘I’m an old friend of his. My name’s Collis Edmonds. Is Mr Browne at home?’

‘Yes. Mr Browne is always at home.’

There was an awkward pause. ‘Well, that’s fine,’ Collis said. ‘Do you think you might be good enough to tell him I’m here?’

‘I might be. But it won’t be of any use.’

‘What do you mean?’

The doorkeeper looked him up and down. ‘You’re a friend, you say?’

‘That’s right. I used to drink with Mr Browne at the Gem Saloon.’

‘Ah. Well, I suppose so.’