It had finally ceased to rain, so I handed my umbrella to him. With a last pointed glance at Weatherly, I started along the muddy footpath. At the corner of my vision, I saw Weatherly halt Samuel for a moment to murmur something in his ear. Samuel nodded at the instruction and with a few long-legged strides caught up to walk behind me.

It took all my self-discipline to refrain from looking over my shoulder to see if the occupant of the hackney alighted too.

I walked sedately to the corner of Union Street and Water Lane. If I was correct, the lane would take me up into Ludgate Hill, very near Rundell, Bridge and Rundell. I surveyed my route. Water Lane was a collection of soot-dark buildings standing cheek by jowl that ended in a crooked intersection with two other streets. Would it actually take me to Ludgate Hill? I had thought it would be teeming with people, but only two soberly clad men, deep in conversation, were climbing the lane’s incline.

My self-discipline, it seemed, was far more limited than I thought: I could not help turning as if to address Samuel to swiftly scan the road and footpath behind his large figure.

Someone had, indeed, alighted from the hackney. It was what I had wanted and yet the sight of the man brought a prickle of alarm across my skin. He was not well-dressed enough to be Mr. Kent, nor did he have the Runner’s height. Even so, he had a broad build and an athletic way of moving that reminded me of a middleweight prizefighter. Was that a flash of red whiskers? Hard to ascertain: his hat was pulled down low and he wore a muffler high around his face. He slouched, too, rather like the man at Hyde Park. Was this the infamous Mulholland?

“We will go up Water Lane,” I said unnecessarily to Samuel.

The two soberly clad men were no longer in sight, the lane now empty. I picked up the hems of my pelisse and gown and started up the narrow pathway alongside the road, the prickle of alarm resolving into an itch of danger between my shoulder blades.

It took some concentration to pick my way along the pavement. The excess of rain—rather appropriate given the lane’s name—had sent rivulets cascading down the flags, the water picking up clumps of foul excrement and dirt along the way. About halfway up, I stopped outside a hatmaker and feigned fatigue, taking a moment to survey my surroundings.

The man had followed us up the lane. Weatherly would now be able to place the notice without being watched, but I had not counted upon the sense of threat I felt.