The terror that had overtaken her at the police station seemed to have taken root. But it could be channelled, she had discovered. Its energy could be diverted. She had reported Miss Trent’s crime to the police—the deed was done and could not be undone, and the police, one presumed, were duty-bound to investigate. At the police station a man had demanded her details and she had given a false name, which a second man had carefully written down, and an address that did not exist, but the witness to the crime was of no consequence. The police would find the doctor—she had been precise about the doctor’s name—and they would find Miss Trent. The evidence was there, it was undeniable. The carpet was stained red, the place smelled thickly of her blood. Miss Trent may lie but her body could not.

And if Miss Trent should tell them who the father was?

Eleanor felt certain she would not. It was not in her nature. The girl was frightened. She would be very much more frightened. She must remain silent and steadfast or incriminate herself. How odd that Eleanor knew this for certain, or felt that she did. No, she would not believe she had placed Alasdair in danger. Surely, whatever outcome now befell Miss Trent, no scandal could be ascribed to him. She was glad she had retrieved the little gold tiepin. There could be nothing that connected her husband to that woman, to that place.

As to Miss Trent’s likely fate …

Well, it was not one’s place to speculate. Miss Trent had transgressed and must pay the price that society, that the law, deemed appropriate.

And as to her husband … She lifted her face to the mirror and studied herself. She did not flinch. As to Alasdair, surely there could be a return now to how things were. Was it naive to think she might suggest, in a day or two, he move back into her room?

Their room.

Alasdair was, that moment, some miles away in the west of the city, speaking at a Federation meeting at the public bar of a hotel in Leichhardt.

A great many men attended the meeting in noisy solidarity for the bill, and in another hotel across the street a great many other men—perhaps not as many—met to denounce the bill. At the conclusion of both meetings, which either by bad luck or malicious intent had occurred simultaneously, the two groups spilled out onto Norton Street, where opinions were passionately exchanged, a punch thrown, a bottle smashed, and it was only due to the heavy presence of the local constabulary that prevented the event descending into pitched battle. Amid the chaos the secretary, James Greensmith, managed to secure a cab, and all the way back to the city he sat exclaiming in thrilled dismay at the sudden and dramatic turn that events had taken.