Monk was too stunned even to comprehend what was happening. It was not until another footman tried to climb into the hansom, his face contorted with outrage, shouting, “Blackguard! Beast!” that Monk electrified into life. He lifted his foot and sent the man sprawling backwards, then yelled at the cabby to drive!

The cab lurched forward, the driver perhaps more frightened than obedient, hurling Monk hard back against the seat. It was a moment before he regained his balance, and they were going at a very smart pace southwards.

“Fitzroy Street!” he shouted at the driver. “As fast as you can! Do you hear me?”

The driver shouted something back, and a moment later they turned. Monk's mind was numb. It was inconceivable. It was as if he had suddenly taken leave of his wits and plunged into some total insanity. One moment they had been the closest of companions, happy and at ease; the next she had changed as if she had ripped off a mask and exposed something hideous, a creature filled with hatred and consumed by it, deranged, prepared to risk injury by falling out of a moving carriage.

And the accusation she had made against him could ruin him. Only as he reached Fitzroy Street and the cab stopped did he realize the implications of what she had done. It was there in the cabby's face, the horror, and the contempt.

He opened his mouth to protest his innocence, and saw the uselessness of it. He thrust his hand into his pocket and paid the man, then strode across the footpath, up the steps and in the front door. He was cold to the bone.

Chapter 7

Monk woke the next morning and memory returned like a cold tide, almost choking him. He gasped for breath, and sat up, his body shaking. The evening had been wonderful, full of laughter and companionship. Then sud- denly, without the slightest warning whatever, Drusilla had changed from the caring, intimate friend she had been, and became a screaming accuser, her face contorted with hate. He could remember it with fearful clarity, as if it were still in front of him, the lips drawn back, the ugliness in mouth and eyes, the triumph.

But why? He hardly knew her, and everything they had shared had been of the greatest pleasure. She was a sophisticated, delightful woman of society, dabbling in a few hours' amusement rather more daring than usual. She was bored with her own circle. She had chosen Monk to take her out of it briefly. And she had chosen him! Her interest had been perfectly plain from the moment they had met on the Geographical Society steps. Looking back on it now, she had bumped into him every bit as much as he into her. Perhaps he should have wondered then why she was so willing to court his company.

Most women would have been more cautious, more circumspect. But he had assumed that she was bored with the restrictions society placed on her and longed for the freedom he represented.

Was she mad? Her behavior was more than unstable, it was unbalanced. This charge would ruin him, but if she insisted that he attempted to force his attentions on her, which she could not possibly believe, then she stood to be at best the subject of speculation as well as sympathy, and at worst the butt of less than charitable gossip. Perhaps she had escaped from Bedlam, or some other asylum for the insane.

He lay on his back staring at the ceiling.

No, that was stupid. If she were demented, then it would be a private matter, cared for by her family. That must be it. She had temporarily escaped her keepers. When she was found again, it would all be explained.

They would understand. Quite probably she had behaved wildly before. Per- haps she had even done the same thing to some other unfortunate man. He rose, washed and shaved. It was while he was staring at his face in the glass, its lean planes, the level gray eyes hard and clever, the wide lips with the faint scar beneath, that he remembered seeing the same face when he first came back from hospital. He had not known it then, not found it even faintly familiar. He had searched it then as he might a stranger's, looking for character, the weaknesses and the strengths, the marks of appetite, the signs of gentleness or humor or pity.

The next question was obvious. Was Drusilla Wyndham mad, or had she known him before, and hated him? Had he done her some injury which she could never forgive, and this was her revenge?

He did not know!

Slowly he cleaned his shaving things and put them away, his hands moving automatically.

But if he had known her, then she must surely have expected him also to know her now? How had she dared approach him as if they were strangers? Had she changed so much she had assumed he would never recognize her?

That was ridiculous. She was a remarkable woman, not merely beautiful but most unusual. Her carriage, her dignity, and her wit were unique. How could she expect any man to see her and then forget her so completely that in meeting again, seeing her repeatedly, speaking with her, hearing her laugh, he would still not remember?

He walked over to the window and stared out at the gray morning, carriages passing below with lamps still lit.

She must know of the loss of his memory.

But how? Who could have told her? No one knew except his personal friends: Hester, Callandra, Oliver Rathbone, and of course John Evan, the young policeman who had been so loyal during that first terrible case after the accident.

Why did she hate him enough to do this? It was no sudden impulse. She had lied and connived from the beginning, sought him out, charmed him, and deliberately placed him where he could be accused and had no defense. They were alone. Her reputation was intact, it was a situation in which it was quite justifiable to be. He could imaginably have assaulted her, and she had witnesses, at least to her distress and escape.

Who would believe his account?

No one. It made no sense at all. He could hardly believe it himself. He dressed, and forced himself to eat the breakfast his landlady brought. “You don't look well, Mr. Monk,” she said with a shake of her head. “Do 'ope as yer not coming down wi' summink. 'Ot mustard poultice, me ma always used to say. Swear by it, she did. Any'ow, tell me if yer needs one, an' I'll make it for yer.”

“Thank you,” he said absently. “Think I'm just tired. Don't worry.”

“Well, you mind yerself, then.” She nodded. “Gets yerself ter some funny parts, you do. Wouldn't be surprised if yer picked up summink nasty.” He mumbled a noncommittal reply, and she busied herself clearing away. There was a knock on the outside door and Monk rose to answer it. The blast of cold air chilled him. The daylight was damp and gray.

“Letter for you, mister,” a small boy said, smiling at him from beneath an oversized cap. “Fer Mr. Monk. That's you, innit? I knows yer. I seen yer abaht.”

“Who gave it to you?” Monk demanded as a glance at the writing showed it unfamiliar. It was elegant, feminine, and not Hester's, Callandra's or Genevieve Stonefield's.

“Lady in a carriage, guv. Dunno her name. Give me threepence ter give it yer.”

His stomach leaped. Perhaps this was some explanation? It would all make sense. It was a mistake.

“Lady with fair hair and brown eyes?” he demanded.

“Fair 'air, dunno about eyes.” The boy shook his head. “Thank you.” Monk tore the letter open. It was dated that morning.

Mr. William Monk,

I had never assumed you to be a gentleman of my own station, but I had imagined you to have the rudiments of decency, or I should never have consented to spend a moment's time in your company, other than as ordinary courtesy demanded. I found your differences entertaining, no more. I am bored with the narrow confines of my own place in society, stifled by the rules and conventions. You offered a stimulating view of another level of life.