Evan bit his lip. "I'm sure. Did you also make a suit in a brown wool for another gentleman, possibly related to him? This man would be in his middle-fifties, average height, quite solidly built. He had grey hair, rather fairer than Rhys Duffs I should think.”

"Yes, sir." Jiggs took a shaky breath. "I made several suits for Mr.

Leighton Duff, he's Master Rhys's father. I fear it may be he you are describing. Was he injured also?”

"I am afraid he is dead, Mr. Jiggs. Can you tell me the number in Ebury Street. I am obliged to inform his family.”

"Oh why, of course. How very terrible. I wish there were some way I could assist." He stepped back as he said it, but there was a look of acute distress in his face, and Evan was disposed to believe him, at least in part.

"The number in Ebury Street?" he repeated.

"Yes… yes. I think it is thirty-four, if my memory serves, but I'll look in my books. Yes, of course I will.”

However, Evan did not go straight to Ebury Street. Rather he returned first to St. Thomas's. There was a sense in which it would be kinder to the family if he could tell them at least that Rhys Duff was still alive, perhaps conscious. And if he could speak, maybe he could tell what had happened, and Evan would have to ask fewer questions.

And there was part of him which was simply not ready yet to go and tell some woman that her husband was dead, and her son may or may not survive, and no one knew yet in what degree of injury, pain or disability.

He found Riley straight away, looking as if he had been there all night. Certainly he seemed to be wearing the same clothes with precisely the same wrinkles and bloodstains on them.

"He's still alive," he said as soon as he saw Evan, and before Evan could ask. "He stirred a bit about an hour ago. Let's go and see if he's come around." And he set off with a long-legged stride as if he too were eager to know.