At least one of his assailants must have been pretty badly hurt.

"D'yer know wot 'appened?" the attendant asked.

"No," Evan said miserably. "No idea, so far.”

The attendant grunted. "Come in from St. Giles, didn't 'e? Reckon as yer'll never find out, then. Nobody from there says nothin' on their own. Poor devil. "Ad a few ga rotters in from there. "E must 'a crossed someone proper ter get beat like that. Don't need ter do that ter no one just ter rob 'im. Gambler maybe.”

"Maybe." The name of the tailor was on the inside of the jacket. He had made a note of that, and the address. It might be sufficient to identify him. "Where is Dr. Riley?”

"Up on the wards, I spec, if 'e in't bin called out again. Fair make use of 'im, you rozzers do.”

"Not of my choice, I promise you," Evan said wearily. "I'd much rather not have the need.”

The attendant sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He said nothing.

Evan went up the stairs and along the corridors, asking, until he found Riley coming out of one of the operating theatres, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, his arms spattered with blood.

"Just taken out a bullet," he said cheerfully. "Damn fool accident.

Marvellous thing this new anaesthetic. Never saw anything like it in my youth. Best thing to happen in medicine since… I don't know what! Maybe it's just the best thing straight and simple. I suppose you've come about your corpse from St. Giles?" He shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked tired. There were fine lines crisscrossing his face, and a smear of blood over his brow and another on his cheek where he had rubbed his hand without realising it.

Evan nodded.

A medical student walked past them, whistling between his teeth until he recognised Riley, then he stopped and straightened his shoulders.