I dressed plainly. A coat I had not worn in years. A hat with a broader brim. I left the walking stick behind. I arrived at Tower Hamlets Road just before eight. At half past eight, the door opened.

He stepped out with a satchel over his shoulder, a notebook tucked under his arm. He walked with purpose, but not haste. He did not look around. He did not expect to be followed.

I let him pass, then fell in behind him. At the junction, I closed the distance.

“Excuse me,” I said, with a nod. “You’re headed toward the station?”

He glanced at me, cautious but not alarmed. “Yes.”

We walked in silence for a few paces. “I used to know someone who lived at number sixty,” I said. “A man named Harvey.”

He looked at me, more directly this time. “I knew Harvey.”

Through careful, oblique conversation, I tested him. I said Harvey was a police sergeant. “No,” the man said, almost without thinking. “He was a constable.”

It meant everything.

Later, I asked where he grew up. “I was raised in a workhouse,” he said. “Whitechapel. Ran away when I was young. Lived rough for a while.”

“I knew a boy like that once,” I said. “He saw something no one believed. Never spoke of it again.”

He didn’t answer. But he flinched — barely, but unmistakably.

As we neared the station, I spoke again — lightly, almost distracted. “I actually think we might know each other more than we realise. And I think I have some more information that may assist you in your recent research project.”

“You’ve been looking for something. I know that. And I think you’ve found more than you expected. But you haven’t found all of it.”

“I’m not here to stop you. I’m here to help you understand what you’ve walked into.”

He studied me for a long moment. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

I smiled faintly. “I believe you already know my name. But I never knew yours. Are you free to tell me?”

He hesitated. “Henry,” he said. “Henry Swift.”

I nodded. “You’ve seen my study by night. Come with me and see it by day.”