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petticoats and flung off her hat, rearranging her hair to look even more casually flattering, fair tendrils curling on her neck and cheeks, and composed her face into an expression of tenderness touched with grief.
    Her new husband was already at home, which she knew from the identity of the footman who had opened the door for her. Had Jack been out, Arthur would have been with him.
    She pushed open the withdrawing room doors and made a dramatic entrance.
    He was sitting by the fire with a tea tray on the low table and his feet up on the stool. The crumpets were already gone; there was only a ring of butter on the plate.
    He smiled with warmth when he heard her and stood up courteously. Then he saw the expression on her face and suddenly his pleasure turned to concern.
    “Emily—what is it? Is something wrong with Charlotte? Is she ill—is it Thomas?”
    “No—no.” She flew to his arms and put her head on his shoulder, partly so he would not meet her eyes. She was not entirely sure how far she could deceive Jack successfully. He was too much like her; he also had survived on his charm and very considerable good looks and he was aware of all the tricks and how to perform them. And it was also because she found herself still very much in love with him, and it was a most comfortable feeling. But she had better explain herself before he became alarmed. “No, Charlotte is perfectly well. But Thomas is engaged on a case which distresses her deeply—and I find I feel the same. A woman was burned to death—a brave and very good woman who was fighting to expose a vicious social evil. Great-Aunt Vespasia is most upset as well.” Now she could abandon subterfuge and face him squarely.
    “Jack, I feel we should do what we can to help—”
    He smoothed her hair gently, kissed her, then with wide eyes and barely the beginning of a smile, met her gaze.
    “Oh yes? And how shall we do that?”
    She made a rapid change of tactics. Drama was not going to win. She smiled back. “I’m not sure—” She bit her lip.
    “What do you think?”
    “What social evil?” he said guardedly. He knew Emily better than she realized.
    “Slum owners who charge exorbitant rents for filthy and crowded tenements—Clemency Shaw wanted to make them answerable to public opinion by not being able to be anonymous behind rent collectors and companies and things.”
    He was silent for so long she began to wonder if he had heard her.
    “Jack?”
    “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes we will—but together. You cannot do anything alone, Emily. We shall be threateningsome very powerful people—there are millions of pounds—you’d be surprised how many fortunes are seated in St. Giles and the Devil’s Acre—and the misery there.”
    She smiled very slightly; the thought was ugly and there flashed through her mind the faces of people she had known in her days with George. She had accepted them easily then; it never occurred to her to wonder where their incomes were generated. Certain people simply had money; it was a state of affairs that had always existed. Now she was less innocent, and it was not a comfortable feeling.
    Jack Was still holding her. He brushed one finger gently over her forehead, pushing back a wisp of hair.
    “Still want to go on?” he asked.
    She was startled how clearly he had understood her thoughts, and the twinges of both guilt and apprehension they had aroused.
    “Of course.” She did not move; it was extremely pleasant remaining in his arms. “There is no possible way to retreat now. What should I say to Great-Aunt Vespasia, or Charlotte—and more important, what should I say to myself?”
    His smile widened and he kissed her gently, and then gradually with passion.
    When she thought about money again, it was a faraway thing to be dealt with another day, real and important then, but for now there were other, better things.

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had been sent for from the Bow Street station, and did not belong to Highgate,