"Please, it is important."
"I haven't seen anyone, I'm afraid."
Catherine kept walking. Her bare feet touched the cold stones, but she didn't care. She turned one corner, then another. London at night was a maze.
"Philip!" she cried out, her voice echoing between the old buildings. "Philip Mercer!"
There was no answer, only the sound of the wind blowing along the streets.
She stopped on a small bridge over the canal, looking at the dark water below. What was she doing? She was mad to look for a man who didn't want to see her, a man who had every right to hate her. But then she remembered his eyes. There was no hate in those eyes. There was only sadness and dignity—a dignity she had never possessed with all her wealth.
She kept walking, turned down a narrower street, and then she saw him.
Philip was sitting on a bench near the canal. He was still wearing his blue shirt and apron. His yellow gloves lay beside him. He was looking at the water in silence.
Catherine stopped. Her heart beat fast. What could she say to him? How could she apologize for something so cruel? She took a step forward. A twig snapped under her foot.
Philip turned and saw her. His eyes widened for a moment in surprise, then became calm again. "Mrs. Radcliffe," he said simply.
Catherine approached slowly. "May I... may I sit down?"
Philip gestured to the bench. "It is a public bench. It is not mine."
She sat down, leaving a space between them. For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the gentle lap of the water filled the silence.
"How did you find me?" Philip asked.
"I don't know," Catherine admitted. "I just walked. I asked, and then you were here."
Philip nodded slowly. "This is my favorite bench. I come here when I need to think."