"Poor devil," Orme said with feeling when they were outside on the icy footpath again. Mist was veiling the streetlamps as if in gauze. A frail sickle-shaped moon sailed between the stars, high above the rooftops. "Both of 'em lost family in the one night. Funny 'ow an instant can change everything. D'you think she meant to?"

"Go over herself, or take him?" Monk asked, beginning to walk down towards the Westminster Bridge, where they would be more likely to find a hansom. He was still hoping it had been an accident.

"Not sure as I know," Orme replied, keeping step with him. "Din't look to me as if she were trying to jump. Facing the wrong way, for a start. Jumpers usually face the water."

Monk felt a rush of warmth even though the slick of moisture on the footpath was turning to ice under his feet. He was not going to let go of hope, not yet.

Monk reached home before nine o'clock. His return was far later than it would have been on a more usual day, but there was little that was routine in his new job. Even his best effort might not be enough; second best certainly would not. Every day he learned more of the skills, the knowledge, and the respect that Durban had had. He admired the qualities that had earned that respect, and they awed him. He felt continually a step behind Durban. No, that was absurd. He was yards behind him.

He knew people and crime; he knew how to smell fear, how to probe lies, when to be confronting, and when to be oblique. However, he had never known how to inspire the love and loyalty of men under his command. They'd admired his intelligence, his knowledge, and his strength, and they'd been frightened of his tongue, but they did not like him. There'd been none of the fierce honor and friendship he had sensed from the beginning between Durban and his men.