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If Weeks was guilty . . . Alexander felt obscurely that this was all Aaron Burr’s fault. If Burr hadn’t been defending Weeks, Alexander would never have volunteered to join his defense, but here he was, facing two unpleasant options. Either Weeks was guilty, and Alexander would have to swallow his scruples and defend a murderer, or he was innocent, but with such damning evidence against him that it would take a momentous effort to defeat.

Burr wasn’t going to do anything about it and neither was Livingston; they were both off on their own affairs, and, goodness knew, Alexander should be busying himself with his.

Alexander looked at the pile of memoranda on his desk, the unanswered correspondence, the half-written letter to George Izard.

“I’m going out,” he said abruptly. He jabbed a finger at the pile of correspondence. “Reply to that.”

He jammed his hat onto his head and strode out of his office, making for Greenwich Street. The cold air hit his face like a tonic, quickening his step, sharpening his thoughts.

If there had been a sleigh, the neighbors might have seen it. Alexander had meant to speak to the neighbors, but there had been no time before he’d left for Albany, and after his return he had been utterly preoccupied with the affairs of the army.

Alexander’s chest ached at the thought of his army, but he forced himself not to think of it, to keep moving, down Greenwich Street, the same path he’d taken that fateful day two months ago on his way to Joseph Watkins’s shop to buy Eliza a coffee biggin.

“Jos. Watkins, Ironmonger,” read the sign above the door.

Inside were the usual wares of the ironmonger, nails and tools and cooking pots of every description, including a row of the coffee biggins he’d intended for Eliza. A young woman, about Alexander’s daughter Angelica’s age, was wrapping a parcel for a customer. Alexander paused to examine the coffee biggins—there was one with lion handles on the side that he rather fancied for Eliza—waiting until the door closed behind the customer before approaching the girl.

“Miss Watkins?” It was a safe guess. These businesses were usually family concerns. “I was wondering if I might have a word with your father.”

The girl didn’t ask who he was or what he wanted. She raised her voice and shouted, “Pa! Gentleman to see you!”

A man in a leather apron bustled through the door that separated the shop from regions beyond. He had the same prosperous appearance as his shop; his graying hair was neatly cut. “How many times must I tell you, Fanny—General Hamilton! You honor us with your custom. How may I be of service to you?”

It was very gratifying being greeted with that sort of enthusiasm.

This, thought Alexander, was the very sort of tradesman they needed for the Federalists. He turned the full force of his charm on the ironmonger. “I’d intended to buy a coffee biggin for my wife—and very fine ones you have here. But I fear it’s other business that brings me here today. The matter of Levi Weeks.”

“Ah.” The tradesman’s expression turned wary. “We’d imagined someone would be around about that, sooner or late. Would you like to come through, sir? My wife can give you a dish of tea. Or coffee from our own biggin.”

Alexander put his hat under his arm. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Fanny,” said Watkins. “Tell your mother we have a distinguished visitor.”

“But, Pa . . .” The request was clearly too great an imposition to be borne.

“Now,” her father said firmly.

With a swish of her skirt, the girl departed. Alexander could hear her shouting, “Ma!”

Watkins looked resignedly after her. “My apologies for my daughter. She used to be a great help in the shop, but she’s of an age . . .”

“I have one of that age myself,” said Alexander, although he couldn’t imagine his sweet Angelica behaving so.

“This affair next door,” said Watkins, still clearly feeling some excuse was needed. “It’s unsettled her. It’s unsettled us all, to be honest.”

“Your house adjoins the Rings’ boardinghouse?”

“It does,” said Watkins guardedly. He untied his leather apron.

Alexander watched him closely. “The night Miss Sands disappeared—did you see anything in the street? Hear anything?”

Watkins seemed to relax a little. “Not that night, no.”

“You didn’t see a sleigh?”

Watkins took his time hanging the apron on a hook by the door. “I saw any number of sleighs. But I didn’t see Elma Sands climb into one.”

“You’ve heard, then,” said Alexander, wondering how long it would take for the whole town to know that Levi Weeks had abducted Elma Sands in a sleigh.