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knowledge of Ambrose’s source distressed me more than his disclosure amused me. Alberto Sanchez somehow recognised you last week.’ Holmes nodded, not entirely surprised. Sanchez was the only one with a likely connection. The detective did not yet know exactly what it was or to what it tended, but it would have been almost insupportably coincidental for any person wholly unconnected to the case to have recognised him. Barnett had been more thorough than even Holmes had expected.
    ‘Ambrose said Sanchez called your deception harmless.’
    ‘Interesting,’ said Holmes, pulling a well-worn notebook and pen from his black leather travelling case. ‘Let us evaluate where this places us. First, I believe we may almost certainly rule out the idea that Ambrose McGregor is lying.’
    ‘The thought had occurred to me,’ murmured Irene, ‘but I could not think of a reasonable motive, and he gave no appearance of it.’
    ‘Well, we may keep the possibility as a remote contingency to fall back on if no other roads lead us to fruitful enquiry, but I doubt it will be needed. Second, we know that Sanchez knows my appearance and is aware that I am alive. This leads to the question: Was Sanchez warned of my continuing existence before and told to be on the lookout for my presence, or was his recognition of me an accident? If the first, then we may suppose a network of people is aware that I am alive; if the second, Sanchez may know of me by some other means, such as a photo of me with someone else whom he has been taught to recognise. I have had few photos taken, but unfortunately some do exist at the cajoling of Watson and Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Third, where does your solicitor, Barnett, fit into the equation? If he is aware that I am alive, why has he not had me tailed? I can say with certainty that I have not been followed since my arrival in America. As improbable as it may seem, I begin to lean toward the possibility that Sanchez may have recognised me by near-chance. There is one particular photo that appeared in the London Times some years ago, after I had helped a certain peer regain a necklace stolen from his wife by a famous jewel thief. My work resulted in the man being caught and imprisoned, not only for the theft in question, but also for several other previously unsolved cases. The picture was notable because it contained the likenesses of several officers of Scotland Yard, Dr Watson, myself, and, most unusually, my brother Mycroft, who had been persuaded to pose for it by the prime minister, who wished the government to receive positive publicity from the incident. The photo’s presence in a prominent newspaper means that numerous reproductions of it were produced, and any number of individuals might have procured it easily.’
    Holmes leaned forward and gazed intently into The Woman’s attentive face. ‘I wonder, Irene, what part Mycroft was intended to play in all of this. As I told you, the letter from Barnett to Sanchez came to him with almost serendipitous chance. I wonder now, more than ever, if my brother was meant to be involved. Perhaps the mastermind, whether Barnett, Sanchez, or someone else, misjudged his character and believed that he would take up where his younger brother had left off—with the same sort of investigation. Perhaps Sanchez was taught to expect to see the face of the elder brother, but instead found himself surprisingly face-to-face with the younger.’
    ‘But for what purpose could he possibly need to know your brother’s face?’
    ‘That is what we must find out. I am afraid, Irene, that this will be our last taste of fine accommodations for some time. Tonight, Bernard and Lavinia James will receive urgent news that calls them back home to England. Tomorrow, you and I will emerge as merchants to set up shop among the migrant day labourers, our faces different enough to fool even those we met this evening if necessary. We may safely hope that our roles will not be