She looked down at her plate for a moment, then up again at him.

"I am very well, thank you. Do I not look it?"

"Indeed, you look exceptionally well," he replied truthfully, although he had actually just noticed it for the first time. "You have found an interest?"

"How perceptive of you."

"I am a detective."

She looked at him very steadily and for that moment there was honest and equal friendship between them, without barrier of words.

"What is it?" he said quietly.

"I am on the Board of Governors in the Royal Free Hospital."

"I am delighted." He knew her late husband had been an army surgeon. It was a position which would suit her experience and her natural abilities and inclinations admirably. He was genuinely pleased for her. "How long?"

"Only a month, but already I feel I have been of some service." Her face was quickened with excitement and her eyes brilliant. "There is so much to be done." She leaned forward across the table. "I know a little about the new methods, Miss Nightingale's beliefs about air and cleanliness. It will take time, but we can accomplish what will seem like miracles if we work hard enough." Unconsciously she was beating her forefinger on the tablecloth. "There are so many progressive doctors, as well as the die-hards. And the difference it makes to have anesthetic! You have no idea how things have changed in the last ten or twelve years."

She pushed the sugar scuttle away, her eyes intent upon his. "Do you know they can make a person completely senseless, oblivious of pain, and then recover him without harm!" Again her finger beat on the cloth. "That means all manner of surgery can be performed. There is no longer any need to tie a person down and hope to complete everything in a matter of two minutes or so. Now speed is not the primary consideration: one may take time-and care. I never imagined I would see such things-it is absolutely marvelous."

Her face darkened and she leaned back again. "Of course, the trouble is we still lose at least half the patients to infection afterwards. That is where we must improve things." Again she leaned forward. "But I am sure it can be done-there are brilliant and dedicated men here. I really feel I may make some difference." Suddenly the earnestness vanished and she smiled with total candor. "Finish your pie and have some more."

He laughed, happy for her enthusiasm, even though he knew so much of it would end in defeat. Still, any victory was precious. "Thank you," he accepted. "It is really exceedingly good."

The following day about ten o'clock Monk walked along to Hastings Street again and called at number fourteen. This time Julia received him in a state of some concern.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk," she said, coming in and closing the door behind her. She was dressed in pale blue-gray and it became her delicate coloring, even though it was a very ordinary day dress with a high neck and the barest of trimmings. "You will be circumspect, won't you?" she said anxiously. "I don't know how you can possibly make inquiries without either telling people what you are seeking or arousing their suspicions. It would be disastrous if they were to learn the truth, or even to imagine it!" She stared up at him with puckered brows and a flush in her cheeks. "Even Audley, Mr. Penrose, was curious yesterday as to why you called. He is not especially fond of cousin Albert, and had not thought that I was either. Which is true, I am not; he was just the most suitable excuse that came to my mind."

"There is no need to be concerned, Mrs. Penrose," he said gravely. "I shall be very discreet."

"But how?" she pressed urgently, her voice sharpening. "What could you possibly say to explain away such questions? Servants talk, you know." She shook her head sharply. "Even the best of them. And what would my neighbors think? What imaginable reason does a respectable person have for employing a private inquiry agent?"

"Do you wish to cease the inquiry, ma'am?" he asked quite quietly. He would understand it very well if she did; indeed, he still did not know what use she would make of the information he sought, even if he found it for her, since no prosecution was planned.

"No," she said fiercely, gritting her teeth. "No I do not. It's just that I must think very clearly before I allow you to proceed. It would be reckless to go ahead and do more damage simply because I feel strongly about the matter."

"I had planned to say there had been a small unpleasantness of damage in the garden," Monk told her. "A few broken plants, and if you have them, glass frames. I will ask if the gardeners or servants have seen any boys playing who might have trespassed and done the harm. That will hardly be a cause for scandal or unseemly speculation."

Her face flickered with amazement, then relief. "Oh, what an excellent idea," she said eagerly. "I should never have thought of that. It sounds so simple and everyday a thing. Thank you, Mr. Monk, my mind is quite at ease."

He smiled in spite of himself. "I'm glad you are satisfied. But your own gardener will not be quite so easy."

"Why not?"

"Because he is perfectly aware that no one has broken your cold frames," he replied. "I had better make it someone else's, and hope they do not compare notes all along the road."

"Oh!" But she gave a little laugh, and the thought of it seemed to amuse her rather than trouble her. "Would you like to see Rodwell today? He is in the back garden now."

"Yes, thank you. This would seem a good opportunity." And without further discussion she led him to the side door into the arbor and left him to find the gardener, who was bent to his knees pulling weeds from the border.

"Good morning, Rodwell," Monk said pleasantly, stopping beside him.

"Mornin' sir," Rodwell answered without looking up.

"Mrs. Penrose gave me permission to speak to you about some breakages locally, in case you happened to have seen any strangers in the area," Monk continued.

"Oh?" Rodwell sat back on his haunches and regarded Monk curiously. "Breakages o' what, sir?"

"Cold frames, bedding plants, that sort of thing."

Rodwell pursed his lips. "No, I can't say as I've seen anyone strange 'round 'ere. Sounds like boys to me, that does-playing, like as not." He grunted. 'Throwin' balls, cricket, and that sort o' thing. Mischief, more'n like, not downright wickedness."

"Probably," Monk agreed, nodding. "But it is not a pleasant thought that some stranger might be hanging around, doing malicious damage, even if it's only slight."

"Mrs. Penrose never said nothing about it." Rodwell screwed up his face and peered at Monk doubtfully.

"She wouldn't." Monk shook his head. "Nothing broken in your garden, I daresay."

"No-nothing at all-well… no but a few flowers, like, against the west wall. But that could 'a bin anything."

"You haven't seen anyone you don't know hanging around in the last two weeks or so? You are sure?"

"No one at all," Rodwell said with absolute certainty. "I'd 'a chased them orf smart if I 'ad. Don't 'old wi' strangers in gardens. Things get broke, just like you said."

"Oh well, thank you for your time, Rodwell."

"You're welcome, sir." And with that the gardener adjusted his cap to a slightly different angle and resumed his weeding.

Next Monk called at number sixteen, explained his purpose, and asked if he might speak to the lady of the house. The maid took the message and returned within ten minutes to admit him to a small but extremely pleasant writing room where a very elderly lady with many ropes of pearls around her neck and across her bosom was sitting at a rosewood bureau. She turned and looked at Monk with curiosity, and then as she regarded his face more closely, with considerable interest. Monk guessed she must be at least ninety years old.