I had the strong impression there were things she might have said to me had Gilroy not been there. Instead she only asked, “What happened to your farm, in the Americas?”

“It’s still mine, although I have not seen it in some years. The pastureland is rented to a neighbor who does keep his horses there.”

“And have you yet rebuilt the house?”

I looked at her. “I’ve never had a reason to.”

We were passing the entrance to Hamilton’s Close. It was empty. The man in the grey coat and hat had gone back to the shadows, but I made sure I was the one walking closest to where he’d been, just to be safe.

Gilroy’s mind was on other things. “If you had no house, then where did you live?”

“With the Wildes, that first winter. And then Mrs. Wilde’s uncle, who kept warehouses near New York’s harbor, needed a new clerk, so I went there and started working for him.”

Lily asked, “To New York City?”

“Aye.”

“That must have been a change, after your years of farming.”

“Aye, well. Sometimes change is for the good.” Our walk had been too short. We’d already come to the corner where she had her lodging, in the house at the head of Forrester’s Wynd.

I stood a moment looking down at her, because I sensed again she might have something that she wished to say, but in the end she only thanked me, and withdrew her hand. I felt the loss of it, and did not like the feeling.

When I turned back, having watched her enter safely in the turnpike stair, I found Gilroy observing me.

He said, in his blunt way, “You should be careful.”

“Why is that?”

“I think you know why.”

I could feel my jaw begin to set. “I can I assure you, I—”

“We are conducting an inquiry. She’s our subject. You’re attracted to her. She may try to use that,” Gilroy said, “to sway your judgment.”

No denial would have stood against those level eyes, so I did not deny it. But I did say, trying to hold back my irritation, “I don’t know what has made you so determined to assume the worst of Mrs. Graeme’s character.”

“I have my reasons.”

“Pray, what are they?”

For a moment, in the street, he faced me down in silence. Then he exhaled, hard.

And told me.

* * *

I must have been frowning, still, when I returned to the Turnbulls’ a short while later and stood at the windows, my back to the drawing room, looking down over the Landmarket, because Helen asked, “Is something wrong?”

I lied. “No.”

The man in the grey coat was back in his place at the entrance to Hamilton’s Close. No longer watching Lily now, but me. Or maybe, watching both of us.

Aiming for an idle tone, I asked, “What was the unrest in the street this morning?”

“A minor scuffle, but it blew up very quickly. It’s the Jacobites,” she said, “and all this talk of an invasion. It puts everyone on edge.”