He gave her a faint smile. “You are quite . . . direct, Miss Dunne.”

All at once Ruby felt an almost physical aversion to this man sitting across from her. Opening the clasp of her purse, she pulled out a small disk on a faded red cord. Holding it up, she said, “The prisoners were required to wear these around their necks on the ship. This was Evangeline’s. It is all that I have of her.” She dropped it into his open palm. “Except your handkerchief, I suppose.”

He rubbed it with his finger, and turned it over, squinting to see the number, 171, etched faintly on the back. Then he looked up. “What do you want from me?” His voice was almost a whisper.

Ruby listened to the tock tock tock of the grandfather clock in the corner. She felt the metronomic beating of her own heart. “You are my biological father. You must realize that by now.”

He gazed at her in the honeyed lamplight, his hands on his knees, rubbing the fabric of his trousers.

“You knew she was pregnant,” she said. “And you did nothing.”

“I didn’t really know. No one ever said it. But I suppose if I’m honest I must admit I . . . suspected.” He took a deep breath. “There’s a deep moral cowardice at the root of the Whitstone family character, I’m afraid. I hope you haven’t inherited it.”

“I have not.”

Silence spiked the air between them.

“I was lucky enough to be taken in,” she said finally. “I have parents who love me, who fought for me. I don’t want anything from you.”

He nodded slowly.

“Except one thing, perhaps. I would like to see the room where Evangeline lived when she was here.”

“It’s been closed up for years.” He tapped his lips. “But I suppose there’s no harm.”

He handed her the ticket and she wrapped it in the threadbare handkerchief and tucked it back inside her purse. Then she followed him down a long hallway wallpapered in green-and-pink stripes and around the corner to a door that opened onto a set of narrow stairs. Down they went past a large kitchen and into a humble dining room, where a small, white-haired lady sat at a table snapping beans.

She squinted up at them behind thick round glasses. “Mr. Whitstone!” she cried. “Where did you find Miss Stokes? She is not allowed here, after what she’s done!”

“Oh—no, no,” he stammered, putting out his hand. “You are mistaken, Mrs. Grimsby. This is Miss Dunne.”

“I think I’ve seen a ghost,” she murmured, shaking her head.

Mr. Whitstone gave Ruby an embarrassed glance and they continued past the dining room and turned down a hallway. He opened the door on the right and she followed him into a small room.

The only window, high on the wall, was shuttered. In the weak light from the hall Ruby could make out a narrow bed stripped of bedding, a side table, and a chest of drawers, all coated with a film of dust. She went and sat on the mattress. The ticking was lumpy.