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And the captain’s assumption, which he assured me was based on many years of experience with the river at flood strength, and the frailty of—” Her words cease; she lowers her head; within her shoes her toes have curled themselves into knots.
    â€œMiss Beale, are you quite well?”
    Martha nods once but cannot make herself reply. She wills herself to breathe in and out while the icy rain that’s been intermittently spattering the now dusk-dark windows grows to a malign gust, rattling the glass in their solid wood casements. She listens to the doleful racket before continuing. “In my heart, Mr. Kelman, I cannot imagine my father dead … cannot even imagine him gone from this house—not for a mere journey of a week or so; I was accustomed to those absences … but for all time? That, I cannot accept. I simply cannot.” She pauses again, then notes that Kelman’s body has gradually shifted from shadow to light, and that the scar she previously noticed on his left cheek now appears in greater relief. It’s as if he were entrusting her with his most precious secret.
    â€œIt has been two days, Miss Beale,” he says gently. “Two days in most inclement weather.”
    â€œBut such occurrences do happen, Mr. Kelman, do they not? If my father were … if he were wounded and struggling … if he were carried downriver—even toward the Delaware—his escape from the torrent and thus to land wouldn’t be easy. But he’s a strong man; and the forests on both banks are dense, and might provide adequate shelter.”
    â€œThat’s true, Miss Beale.” Kelman hesitates. “But the river and climate are exceedingly cold.”
    Martha glances again at his scar. She has a sudden and shameful desire to touch it, to touch his face and his wondrous hands. Instead, she cleaves to her air of studied detachment. “So I have been repeatedly cautioned, Mr. Kelman. Not even my father could survive in the river for more than a few minutes’ time.” Then she gazes at her visitor full in the face, behavior that seems as wanton and reckless as her previous wish. “But if Father did escape, could he not have found a cave in which to take refuge? And isn’t it possible that he’s there now? Delirious from the chill he must have taken …”
    Her words again trail off; and Kelman waits for a moment before continuing.
    â€œI apologize again, Miss Beale, for my lack of delicacy. But a man as important as your father … Well, we must examine every aspect of the situation.” He looks to her for comprehension, but she remains motionless in her chair.
    â€œI appreciate your thoroughness, Mr. Kelman,” Martha murmurs at length, although the tone has grown hollow, and her posture appears resigned rather than grateful. “But I wonder, if this were not the case of a wealthy and illustrious man, but rather that of a destitute person, would so much attention be paid … especially by an assistant to our city’s mayor?”
    The thin line on Kelman’s cheek turns a bitter pink while his black eyes cloud. “Police procedure dictates scrupulous equality in dealings with those of both great and lesser birth, Miss Beale.”
    She stares at him in surprise. The sentiment is a far cry from those she’s heard espoused by her father and Owen Simms. “Do you also adhere to this policy, Mr. Kelman?”
    â€œI do.”
    She doesn’t respond. What is it in his tone, she wonders, that so resembles reverence? It isn’t the stentorian theatrics of Dr. Percival at St. Peter’s Church or the rumbling incantations of the famous Bishop Fosche; instead, it’s a pure sound, unrehearsed, heartfelt, clean. She feels herself blush; this time she doesn’t bow her head.
    â€œAs long as I can recall, Mr. Kelman, my father has been a successful man of affairs … an increasingly successful man. In