Another man had settled indolently into the squared opening to Hamilton’s Close, his shoulder to the wall, his grey cocked hat and grey coat blending well into the stone.

Forrester’s Wynd was not much farther beyond that spot, toward St. Giles’s church.

Gilroy said, “That is the address of her lodgings. Or at least, the one she gave to us. She’ll not have far to go.”

It wasn’t that I did not trust him, but I watched myself as Mrs. Graeme walked the distance through the crowd of people in the street, went safely past the man in grey, and took the turning into Forrester’s Wynd.

“I think you need not worry for her welfare,” Gilroy said. “She seems an independent woman.”

Helen pointed out that this was only natural. “If her husband died at Darien, then she’ll have been a widow seven years. That’s long enough for any woman to learn independence, of necessity.” Helen had not joined us at the window, staying in the comfort of her chair beside the table, from which she could clearly view the both of us, although her words were meant for Gilroy. “You do not approve of her.”

He turned. This time the eyebrow was most definitely raised. “Madam, I honestly have not formed an opinion of her.”

“You spoke brusquely to her.”

“Speaking brusquely is my habit,” he admitted with a shrug. “I shall rely on Sergeant Williamson to be the one who speaks to her more kindly.” And to me, he added, “You did very well this afternoon, I must say.”

I could not hold back a smile at his tone. “Much better than you thought I would?”

“I did not say that.”

“No. You did not.”

Helen laughed, and said to Gilroy, “You see now, you’re a simple man to read.”

He left the window, crossing to the table to return his papers to their former order. “Am I?”

“Yes,” she told him. “And I do apologize for teasing you, but it is far too easy. You will stay to supper?”

“No. I thank you, but I am expected elsewhere.”

She accepted this with, “Then we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“About that.” I aimed this at Gilroy, who looked at me.

“Yes?”

“Forgive me, for I have not your experience with matters such as this…”

Helen defended me. “You owe yourself more credit. I am sure my husband could himself have done no better. He’ll be very grateful, as am I.”

I thanked her. “But,” I said, to Gilroy, “you’ve invited Mrs. Graeme back tomorrow, and I cannot see what we have left to talk about.”

He had a way of smiling that could not entirely be called a smile, as though he held some knowledge closely and in private, as a sharper holds his cards. He said, “She was mistaken on one point. Her husband’s cousin, Robert Moray—she did call him Robin—is no longer on the Continent. He returned home to Scotland in April of this year.”

Helen asked, “Does he live nearby?”