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worse."
    "Quite. So you left Mecklenburg Square about seven o'clock."
    "Reckon so."
    "Did you see anyone else go into Number Six, after Mr. Grey?"
    "Yes sir, one other gentleman in a black coat with a big fur
collar."
    There was a note in brackets after the last statement to say it had been
established that this person was a resident of the apartments, and no suspicion
attached to him.
    The name of Mary Ann Brown was written in the same hand at the bottom,
and a rough cross placed beside it.
    Monk put it down. It was a statement of only negative value; it made it
highly unlikely that Joscelin Grey had been followed home by his murderer. But
then the crime had happened in July, when it was light till nine in the
evening. A man with murder, or even robbery, on his mind would not wish to be
seen so close to his victim.
    By the window Evan stood still, watching him, ignoring the clatter in
the street beyond, a drayman shouting as he backed his horse, a coster calling
his wares and the hiss and rattle of carriage wheels.
    Monk picked up the next statement, in the name of Alfred Cressent, a
boy of eleven who swept a crossing at the corner of Mecklenburg Square and
Doughty Street, keeping it clear of horse droppings principally, and any other
litter that might be let fall.
    His contribution was much the same, except that he had not left Doughty
Street until roughly half an hour after the ribbon girl.
    The cabby claimed to have picked Grey up at a regimental club a little
before six o'clock, and driven him straight to Mecklenburg Square. His fare had
done no more than pass the time of day with him, some trivial comment about the
weather, which had been extraordinarily unpleasant, and wished him a good
night upon leaving. He could recall nothing more, and to the best of his knowledge
they had not been followed or especially remarked by anyone. He had seen no
unusual or suspicious characters in the neighborhood of Guilford Street or
Mecklenburg Square, either on the way there or on his departure, only the
usual peddlers, street sweepers, flower sellers and a few gentlemen of
unobtrusive appearance who might
    have been clerks returning home after a long day's work, or pickpockets
awaiting a victim, or any of a hundred other things. This statement also was of
no real help.
    Monk put it on top of the other two, then looked up and found Evan's
gaze still on him, shyness tinged with a faint, self-deprecating humor.
Instinctively he liked Evan—or could it be just loneliness, because he had no
friend, no human companionship deeper than the courtesies of office or the
impersonal kindness of Mrs. Worley fulfilling her "Christian duty."
Had he had friends before, or wanted them? If so, where were they? Why had no
one welcomed him back? Not even a letter. The answer was unpleasant, and
obvious: he had not earned such a thing. He was clever, ambitious—a rather
superior ratcatcher. Not appealing. But he must not let Evan see his weakness.
He must appear professional, in command.
    "Are they all like this?" he asked.
    "Pretty much," Evan replied, standing more upright now that he
was spoken to. "Nobody saw or heard anything that has led us even to a
time or a description. For that matter, not even a definitive motive."
    Monk was surprised; it brought his mind back to the business. He must
not let it wander. It would be hard enough to appear efficient without
woolgathering.
    "Not robbery?" he asked.
    Evan shook his head and shrugged very slightly. Without effort he had
the elegance Monk strove for, and Run-corn missed absolutely.
    "Not unless he was frightened off," he answered. "There
was money in Grey's wallet, and several small, easily portable ornaments of
value around the room. One fact that might be worth something, though: he had
no watch on. Gentlemen of his sort usually have rather good watches, engraved,
that sort of thing. And he did have a watch chain."
    Monk sat on the edge of the