funny little man was going to tell him the name of the murderer of Joscelin Grey. It was incredible, dazzling.
"I discovered who he was," Yeats repeated. "I knew I should have told you as soon as I found out, but I thought-"
The moment of paralysis was broken.
"Who?" Monk demanded; he knew his voice was shaking. "Who was it?"
Yeats was startled. He began to stammer again.
"Who was it?'' Monk made a desperate effort to control himself, but his own voice was rising to a shout.
"Why-why, sir, it was a man called Bartholomew Stubbs. He is a dealer in old maps, as he said. Is it-is it important, Mr. Monk?"
Monk was stunned.
"Bartholomew Stubbs?" he repeated foolishly.
"Yes sir. I met him again, through a mutual acquaintance. I thought I would ask him." His hands fluttered. "I was quite shockingly nervous, I assure you; but I felt in view of the fate of poor Major Grey that I must approach him. He was most civil. He left here straight after speaking to me at my doorstep. He was at a temperance meeting in Farringdon Road, near the House of Correction, fifteen minutes later. I ascertained that because my friend was there also." He moved from one foot to the other in his agitation. "He distinctly remembers Mr. Stubbs's arrival, because the first speaker had just commenced his address."
Monk stared at him. It was incomprehensible. If Stubbs had left immediately, and it seemed he had, then who was the man Grimwade had seen leaving later?
"Did-did he remain at the temperance meeting all evening?" he asked desperately.
"No sir." Yeats shook his head. "He only went there to meet my friend, who is also a collector, a very learned one-"
"He left!" Monk seized on it.
"Yes sir." Yeats danced around in his anxiety, his hands jerking to and fro. "I am trying to tell you! They left together and went to get some supper-"
"Together?"
"Yes sir. I am afraid, Mr. Monk, Mr. Stubbs could not have been the one to have so dreadfully attacked poor Major Grey."
"No." Monk was too shaken, too overwhelmingly disappointed to move. He did not know where to start again.
"Are you quite well, Mr. Monk?" Yeats asked tentatively. "I am so sorry. Perhaps I really should have told you earlier, but I did not think it would be important, since he was not guilty."
"No-no, never mind," Monk said almost under his breath. "I understand."
"Oh, I'm so glad. I thought perhaps I was in error."
Monk muttered something polite, probably meaningless-he did not want to be unkind to the little man-and made his way out onto the landing again. He was hardly aware of going down the stairs, nor did he register the drenching weight of the rain when he passed Grimwade and went outside into the street with its gaslight and swirling gutters.
He began to walk, blindly, and it was not until he was spattered with mud and a cab wheel missed him by less than a foot that he realized he was on Doughty Street.
" 'Ere!" the cabby shouted at him. "Watch w'ere yer going', guv! Yer want ter get yerself killed?"
Monk stopped, staring up at him. "You occupied?"
"No guv. Yer want ter go somewhere? Mebbe yer'd better, afore yer get someb'dy into a haccident."
"Yes," Monk accepted, still without moving.
"Well come on then," the cabby said sharply, leaning forward to peer at him. "Not a night fer man ner beast ter be out in, it ain't. Mate o' mine were killed on a night like this, poor sod. 'Orse bolted and 'is cab turned over. Killed, 'e were. 'It 'is 'ead on the curb an' 'e died, jes' like that. And 'is fare were all smashed abaht too, but they say as 'e were o'right, in the end. Took 'im orf ter 'orspital, o' course. 'Ere, are yer goin' ter stand there all night, guv? Come on now, either get in, or don't; but make up yer mind!"
"This friend of yours." Monk's voice was distorted, as if from far away. "When was he killed, when was this accident, exactly?"
"July it were, terrible weather fer July. Wicked night.
'Ailstorm wot lay like snow. Swear ter Gawd-I don't know wot the wevver's comin' ter."
"What date in July?" Monk's whole body was cold, and idiotically calm.
"Come on now, sir?" the cabby wheedled, as one does a drunk or a recalcitrant animal. "Get in aht o' the rain. It's shockin' wet aht there. Yer'll catch yer death."
"What date?"
"I fink as it were the fourf. Why? We ain't goin' ter 'ave