She raised her chin sharply.

"Something like that."

He gave her a filthy look, then opened the door for her to leave. It was now quarter to seven. On the step she turned to meet his eyes in a long, steady gaze, then smiled a little, just turning up the corners of her mouth. It was a gesture of courage rather than humor or hope.

He watched her leave without the sense of despair he ought to have felt, considering how totally absurd their venture was.

His first attempt was ghastly. The establishment opened for business at ten o'clock, although the flowermakers, stitchers, ribboners, and pressers had been there since seven. A middle-aged woman with a hard, watchful face welcomed him in and inquired if she might be of service.

He asked to see a hat suitable for his sister, avoiding looking at the displays of any manner of hats in straw, felt, linen, feather, flowers, ribbons, and lace stacked in several corners of the room and along shelves to the sides.

With a supercilious air she asked him to describe his sister and the type of occasion for which the hat was required.

He made an attempt to tell her of Beth's features and general aspect.

"Her coloring, sir," she said with ill-concealed weariness. "Is she dark like yourself, or fair? Does she have large eyes? Is she tall or small?"

He seized on something definite, cursing Hester for having sent him on this idiot's venture.

"Light brown hair, large blue eyes," he replied hastily. "About your height."

"And the occasion, sir?"

"Church."

"I see. Would that be a London church, sir, or somewhere in the country?"

"Country." Did his Northumbrian heritage show so transparently? Even after his years of careful diction to eradicate it? Why had he not said London: it would have been so much easier, and it did not matter. He was not going to buy a hat anyway.

"I see. Perhaps you would care to look at a few of these?" She led him to several very plain shapes in straw and fabric. "We can, of course trim them as you please," she added, seeing the look on his face.

The color rose up his cheeks. He felt like a complete fool. Again he cursed Hester. Nothing except his rage against Sir Herbert would have kept him here. "What about something in blue?"

"If you like," she said with disapproval. "Rather obvious, don't you think? What about green and white?" She picked up a bunch of artificial daisies and held them against a pale green straw bonnet with a green ribbon, and suddenly the effect was so fresh and dainty it took him back with a jolt of memory to childhood days in the summer fields with Beth as a little girl.

"That's lovely," he said involuntarily.

"I'll have it delivered," she said immediately. "It will be ready by tomorrow evening. Miss Liversedge will see to the details. You may settle the account with her."

And five minutes later Monk found himself in the street, having purchased a bonnet for Beth and wondering how on earth he would post it to Northumberland for her. He swore profoundly. The bonnet would have suited Hester, but he certainly was not going to give it to her-of all people.

The next shop was less expensive, busier, and his by now blazing temper saw him through the difficulty of actually expressing approval of any particular bonnet.

He could not waste all day looking at hats. He must broach the subject of his call, however difficult.

"Actually the lady in question is with child," he said abruptly.

"So she will shortly be remaining at home for some time," the assistant observed, thinking of the practicalities. 'The hat will be worn only for a few months, or even weeks?"

He pulled a face.

"Unless she is able to…" He stopped, shrugged slightly.

The woman was most perceptive. "She already has a large family?" she suggested.

"Indeed."

"Unfortunate. I assume, sir, that she is not-happy-with the event?"

"Not happy at all," he agreed. "In fact, it may well jeopardize her health. There is a limit…" He looked away and spoke very quietly. "I believe if she knew how to-take steps…"

"Could she afford… assistance?" the woman inquired, also very quietly.

He turned to face her. "Oh yes… if it were anything within reason."

The woman disappeared and returned several moments later with a piece of paper folded over to conceal the writing on it.

"Give her this," she offered.

"Thank you. I will." He hesitated.

She smiled. "Have her tell them who gave you the address. That will be sufficient."

"I see. Thank you."

Before he went to the address she had given him, which was in one of the back streets off the WMtechapel Road, he walked some distance in that general direction, thinking long and carefully about the story he would present. It crossed his mind with some humor that he should take Hester and say that she was the lady in need of help. But dearly as he would have liked to do that-the poetic justice of it would have been sweet-she was too importantly occupied as she was at the hospital.

He could no longer pretend to be going for a sister. The abortionist would expect the woman herself; it was not something which could be done at one removed. The only case where she might accept a man making the inquiries would be if the woman were too young to come in person until the last moment-or too important to risk being seen unnecessarily. Yes-that was an excellent idea! He would say he was inquiring for a lady-someone who would not commit herself until she knew it was safe.

He hailed a cab, gave the driver directions to the White-chapel Road, and sat back, rehearsing what he would say.

It was a long journey. The horse was tired and the cabby sullen. They seemed to stop every few yards and the air was loud with the shouts of other frustrated drivers. Peddlers and costers called their wares, the driver of a dray misjudged a corner and knocked over a stall, and (here was a brief and vicious fight, ending with bloody noses and a lot of blasphemous language. A drunken coachman ran straight over a junction at something close to a gallop, and several other horses either shied or bolted. Monk's own hansom had gone a full block before the driver managed to bring it under control again.

Monk alighted onto the Whitechapel Road, paid the driver, who by now was in an unspeakable temper, then began walking toward the address he had been given at the milliner's shop.

At first he thought he had made a mistake. It was a butcher's. There were pies and strings of sausages in the window. If he were right, someone had a macabre sense of humor-or none at all.

Three thin children in dirty clothes stood on the pavement watching him. They were all white-faced. One, about ten or eleven years old, had broken front teeth. A dog with mange in its fur crept around the corner and went in the doorway.

After a moment's hesitation Monk went in after it.

Inside was hot and dim, little light getting through the grimy windows-the smoke of countless factory chimneys and domestic fires had grayed them over the months, and the summer thunderstorms had done nothing to help. The air was heavy and smelled stale and rancid. A large fly buzzed lazily and settled on the counter. The young woman apparently awaiting customers picked up an old newspaper and slammed it down, killing the fly instantly.

"Gotcher!" she said with satisfaction. "What can I do for yer?" she asked Monk cheerfully. "We got fresh mutton, rabbit pie, pigs' trotters, calves'-foot jellies, brawn, best in the East End, and tripes, sheeps' brains, pigs' liver, and sausages o' course! What yer want then?"

"Sausages look good," he lied. "But what I really want is to see Mrs. Anderson. Is this the right address?"

"That depends," she said guardedly. "There are lots of Mrs. Andersons. What did yer want 'er for?"