Monk set it aside. It was personal, perhaps mildly suggestive-certainly far from accusing, let alone damning.

He read the next one, and the next. They were essentially similar, a great deal of medical comment and detail, and again the reference to Sir Herbert and his skill.

It was ridiculous to feel so disappointed. What had he expected?

He read three more, his attention increasingly waning.

Then quite suddenly he found his heart beating and his fingers stiff as he held the paper.

I spoke for over an hour with Sir Herbert last night. We did not finish until nearly midnight, and both of us were too overwrought by events to retire immediately. I have never admired a man's skills more, and I told him so. He was very gentle and warm toward me. Faith, I really believe true happiness is possible for me, in a way I only dreamed as a girl. I am on the brink of all I have wanted for so long. And Herbert is the one who can bring it about for me.

I went to bed so happy-and excited. I hope-I dream-I even pray! And it all lies with Herbert. God be with him.

Prudence.

Frantically Monk leafed through more letters, and found other passages in the same vein, full of hope and excitement, full of reference to happiness in the future, dreams coming true, in among the medical details and case histories.

He has it in his power to make me the happiest woman in the world. I know it sounds absurd, impossible, and I do understand what you tell me, all the cautions and warnings, and that you have only my happiness ^Jn mind. But if it all comes true… And he could make it happen, Faith-he could! It is not impossible after all. I have searched and thought, but I know of no law which cannot be fought or circumvented. Pray for me, my dear sister. Pray for me!

And then the tone changed, quite suddenly, only a week before her death.

Sir Herbert has betrayed me totally! At first I could hardly believe it. I went to him, full of hope-and, fool that I was, of confidence. He laughed at me and told me it was totally impossible and always would be.

I realized, like a hard slap in the face, that he had been using me, and what I could give him. He never intended to keep his word.

But I have a way of keeping him to it. I will not permit him the choice. I hate force-I abhor it. But what else is left me? I will not give up-I will not! I have the weapons, and I will use them!

Was that what had happened? She had gone to him with her threat and he had retaliated with his own weapon- murder?

Faith Barker was right. The letters were enough to bring Sir Herbert Stanhope to trial-and very possibly enough to hang him.

In the morning he would take them to Runcorn.

It was barely eight o'clock when Monk put the letters into his pocket and rode in a hansom to the police station. He alighted, paid the driver, and went up the steps savoring every moment, the bright air already warm. The sounds of shouting, the clatter of hooves, and the rattle of cart wheels over the stones, even the smells of vegetables, fish, rubbish, and old horse manure were inoffensive te him today.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully to the desk sergeant, and saw the man's look of surprise, and then alarm.

"Mornin' sir," he said warily, his eyes narrowing. "What can we do for you, Mr. Monk?"

Monk smiled, showing his teeth. "I should like to see Mr. Runcorn, if you please? I have important evidence in connection with the murder of Prudence Barrymore."

"Yes sir. And what would that be?"

"That would be confidential, Sergeant, and concerns a very important person. Will you tell Mr. Runcorn, please?"

The sergeant thought about it for a moment, regarding Monk's face. A flood of memories came back to him, transparent in his expression, and all the old fears of a quick and savage tongue. He decided he was still more afraid of Monk than he was of Runcorn.

"Yes, Mr. Monk. I'll go and ask him." Then he remembered that Monk no longer had any status. He smiled tentatively. "But I can't say as he'll see you."

"Tell him it's enough for an arrest," Monk added with acute satisfaction. "I'll take it elsewhere if he'd rather?"

"No-no sir. I'll ask him." And carefully, so as not to show any deferential haste, still less anything that could be taken for obedience, he left the desk and walked across the floor to the stairs.

He was gone for several minutes, and returned with an almost expressionless face.

"Yes sir, if you like to go up, Mr. Runcorn will see you now."

"Thank you," Monk said with elaborate graciousness. Then he went up the stairs and knocked on Runcorn's door. Now there were a host of memories crowding him too, countless times he had stood here with all manner of news, or none at all.

He wondered what Runcorn was thinking, if there was a flicker of nervousness in him, recollection of their past clashes, victories and defeats. Or was he now so sure of himself, with Monk out of office, that he could win any confrontation?

"Come." Runcorn's voice was strong and full of anticipation.

Monk opened the door and strode in, smiling.

Runcorn leaned a little back in his chair and gazed at Monk with bland confidence.

"Good morning," Monk said casually, hands in his pockets, his fingers closing over Prudence's letters.

For several seconds they stared at each other. Slowly Runcorn's smile faded a little. His eyes narrowed.

"Well?" he said testily. "Don't stand there grinning. Have you got something to give the police, or not?"

Monk felt all the old confidence rushing back to him, the knowledge of his superiority over Runcorn, his quicker mind, his harder tongue, and above all the power of his will. He could not recall specific victories, but he knew the flavor of them as surely as if it were a heat in the room, indefinable, but immediate.

"Yes, I have something," he replied. He pulled the letters out and held them where Runcorn could see them.

Runcorn waited, refusing to ask what they were. He stared at Monk, but the certainty was ebbing away. Old recollections were overpowering.

"Letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister," Monk explained. "I think when you have read them you will have sufficient evidence to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope." He said it because he knew it would rattle Runcorn, who was terrified of offending socially or politically important people, and even more of making a mistake from which he could not retreat, or blame anyone else. Already a flush of anger was creeping up his cheeks and a tightness around his mouth.

"Letters from Nurse Barrymore to her sister?" Runcorn repeated, struggling to gain time to order his thoughts. "Hardly proof of much, Monk. Word of a dead woman- unsubstantiated. Don't think we would be arresting anyone on that. Never get a conviction." He smiled, but it was a sickly gesture, and his eyes reflected nothing of it.

Memory came flashing back of that earlier time when they were so much younger, of Runcorn being equally timid then, afraid of offending a powerful man, even when it seemed obvious he was hiding information. Monk could feel the power of his contempt then as acutely as if they were both still young, raw to their profession and their own abilities. He knew his face registered it just as clearly now as it had then. And he saw Runcom's recognition of it, and the hatred fire in his eyes.

"I'll take the letters and make my own decision as to what they're worth." Runcorn's voice was harsh and his lips curled, but his breathing was harder and his hand, thrust out to grasp the papers, was rigid. "You've done the right thing bringing them to the police." He added the last word with satisfaction and now his eyes met Monk's.