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"Then do not put one there," Vogel answered. "Your part is the route and the horse. Leave the rest to chance."

It was an evasion, and both men knew it. Pike accepted a deposit nevertheless. Debt, Vogel reflected, made excellent servants of men's scruples.

Vogel met Pike once more before the journey, less to give further instructions than to determine whether the man had reconsidered. They stood in a busy stable yard where every groom appeared intent upon his own duties and none could be certain what passed between two gentlemen discussing a hired carriage.

Pike studied the dispatch slip bearing Whitcomb’s name. "And the house will expect me?" he asked.

"They will expect the carriage ordered through Whitcomb," Vogel answered. "You are the replacement coachman. You must present yourself as such, take the prescribed route out of London, and wait until you reach the lane I have marked. The other groom will know nothing of it."

"You understand that nothing is to be traced to me," Vogel said.

Pike stared at the ground. "The lady asks to travel. I take a road you choose. That is all I know."

"That is all you need know."

"You told me no one was to be harmed."

Vogel looked at him sharply. "I told you to avoid a death. You agreed to a dangerous arrangement. Do not improve your conscience by inventing promises."

Pike swallowed. "There will be people with her."

"There are people with everyone. If you mean to withdraw, do it now and return the money."

The driver did not move. After a long pause, he said, "I have already paid my landlord."

"Then the matter is settled."

Vogel walked away, disgusted with the man and more disgusted with himself. He had told Adelheid that danger could not be managed as neatly as a household account. Yet he had taken her money, put a desperate driver in charge of the plan, and persuaded himself that he would not be responsible for anything the road happened to do.

At home he counted the payments already received and the funds promised upon completion. His clerk, Mr. Finch, observed that one amount bore an unfamiliar merchant's mark and asked whether it ought to be entered under the ordinary transport ledger.

"No," Vogel answered too quickly. "It concerns a private client. Keep those papers with my personal correspondence."

Finch nodded, but he had a tidy mind and a good memory for instructions that altered the ordinary habit of business. He placed the receipt under its own cover and entered the date of the transfer in the private index, as Vogel ordered.

Vogel knew he ought to destroy every such record. He kept them because Adelheid had once assured him he would be protected, and protection had proved no more dependable than her regret. He considered the papers an insurance he prayed he would never have to claim.

That night, returning from a small supper with friends, Vogel passed a church where a woman was helping a child put on a cloak. The child's laughter followed him down the street. He thought of Minna, scarcely more than a girl when he helped send her into danger, and of the daughter whose name he had learned only weeks earlier. For a moment he contemplated finding Lord Matlock and telling him everything.

Then he imagined the authorities, the old carriage, the prince's dead brother, and the years of easy concealment falling into ruins. He kept walking. Courage, he decided, was too expensive a luxury to purchase so late in life.

At the house in London where Albrecht and Adelheid lodged, the prince was studying a parcel of letters from his children. Young Wilhelmine had enclosed a drawing of Falkenried's gardens with three figures beneath an apple tree, labelled Friedrich, Albrecht, and Minna. She had copied it from an old account of a family picnic, hoping to send it to her English cousin.

"She has made Friedrich much too tall," Albrecht said, showing it to Adelheid. "Though Minna would have insisted she herself was not tall enough."

"The girl is sentimental," Adelheid answered.

"She takes after you," he said warmly. "You have always cherished our children."

Adelheid could not meet his gaze. Every calculation she made was supposedly for those children, yet his praise was becoming unbearable. If he knew the price at which she had purchased their inheritance, he would never speak to her with that trusting tenderness again.

"Elizabeth is leaving on a visit," she said, turning the page.

"For a few days only. I am glad of it. She has had more than enough solemn gentlemen discussing her papers."

"I hope she travels safely."

"Of course she will," he answered.