Or Cobb, coming to the house because he couldn’t stay away?

Hamish said, “He hated Teller.”

It wouldn’t do for the two of them to meet, both of them tense and under a great strain.

Either it was his imagination or someone had opened the door now and stepped inside. The front step was empty.

The silence lengthened. Rutledge shut his eyes, to hear better. But the only sound was his own breathing, and the beating of his heart.

Something fell over in the house. Rutledge moved quietly through the gate.

Hamish said, “Someone’s in yon parlor.”

“Yes.”

And then a light bloomed in the bedroom window, a candle flame, he was sure of it.

Rutledge returned to his motorcar and collected the torch. Then crouching low so that he couldn’t be seen from the windows, he made his way to the rear of the house.

He stumbled, realized that he’d tripped over one of the tiny head-stones, and froze. But no one came to the windows or the door. Aware that he’d failed to gauge his approach properly, he realigned his direction to avoid the flower beds by the kitchen door.

Ducking under the kitchen windows, he glimpsed a flash of light, as if whoever was holding the candle was moving down the stairs.

Time was of the essence.

He reached the door, counting to twenty-five before putting his hand on the latch. Lifting it gently, he waited in the doorway.

No one spoke, and he stepped inside.

The candle was in the parlor. He couldn’t see who was holding it, only the faint glow as it was raised to allow someone to survey the room.

It moved on to the sitting room.

Rutledge was well inside the kitchen now, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness within the house.

Then there was an intake of breath, and a curse as the candle went out.

“My God, what are you doing here?” It was Teller speaking. And then the scrape of a match, and the candle bloomed into life again. Rutledge could see Teller’s shadow thrown against the far wall, black and formidable, but knew he himself was invisible.

Teller raised his voice. “I asked you what you were doing here?”

A woman’s low voice said, “The police said you weren’t here. But I knew you were. Do you think you can make amends to her? Or is this sackcloth and ashes too late?”

Rutledge strained his ears. Was it Susannah? Hamish disagreed.

“Sanctuary. Of a sort. That’s all.”

“Men like Rutledge don’t walk away. He’ll find you here.”