The chaos and congestion that usually clogged the street during the day had given way to one or two wagons making night deliveries, carriages heading to the opera or the theater or a supper party, men going to their clubs. There were couples walking and tired newsboys and vendors making their way home, but no tramps and vagrants—not in this part of town. Here the rich were still rich. Here there were no empty shop windows and warehouses given over to auction marts selling off the goods of those who had gone bankrupt. When he was in this part of town, Patrick believed all things must still be possible. He reached for the bag looped over his shoulder, patting it as he had many times since he’d left the house, reassuring himself that the stone was still there. Tonight would be different from the last time. Tonight they would not fail. He knew it. He’d chosen to walk instead of call for the carriage because he didn’t want anyone to know where he was going, not so late. Lucy and his mother were used to his comings and goings.
