When Nesbit reached the end of his cigarette, he tossed it into the flames and glanced at where O’Hara sat, comfortably cross-legged on the floor. Bindra pocketed the balls and curled before his long-lost father, small head cradled by the man’s robes, the young face gazing at the low flames, eyes slowly closing in the warmth. O’Hara’s left hand rested on the tousled hair, his right played unceasingly with the beads of his rosary; he looked as content as the child.

Nesbit broke the silence, keeping his voice low. “Why did you not tell me about the boy?”

O’Hara smiled. “Because you would have wanted him. I was given over to Creighton’s hands when I was thirteen; plenty soon enough.”

“But the child has been living unsheltered for three years. Surely having him come to us would have been better than wherever he’s been.”

“Two years and three months, since we were separated. He has been among friends.” O’Hara’s fingers told the rosary, over and over, while the wood fire crackled and the boy’s breathing deepened.

“But how on earth did he find us?” I wanted to know.

The monk smiled down at his sleeping son. “Until twelve weeks ago, he was with his mother’s brother, in the mountains. When I succeeded in getting the amulet out, it passed through the hands of a man who knew where to find the boy. He told the lad I was safe, and then my son got it into his mind to watch Nesbit, that he might participate in his father’s rescue. You two came; he followed Holmes as he came and went, talking to Nesbit, purchasing many interesting things, and finally going to the horse-seller’s; when you arrived there to take possession of the donkey and the cart, Ram Bachadur himself lay sleeping, thanks to some drugged pilau he had eaten.”

“Who was the man that helped you?” Nesbit demanded.

The calm eyes looked back. “A friend.”

“He was one of us, wasn’t he? Within the Survey?”

“That is possible.”

“What he’s done could be called treason.”

“Or brotherhood.”

“There is some man performing treason, from within the walls of the Survey. Men have died because of him. Men who were our brothers: Forbes, Mohammed Talibi, and a new boy, Bartholomew.”

O’Hara’s fingers paused on his rosary, his head dipped as the names registered with him, but when he spoke again, his voice left no room for doubt. “I grieve for their deaths, Nesbit, but it was not he who put the knife to their throats.”

Nesbit scowled at the man on the floor; still he had little choice at the moment but to put aside the question of the traitor in the Survey ranks, and go on. “But how did you end up in that prison in the first place?”