2

In my anxious state of mind, the flight from Kennedy Airport seemed endless. All I could do while the plane ate up the miles was read and nap a little, and try not to think of what might lie ahead.

I’d had an exchange of letters and phone calls with Mrs. Arles and was now familiar with her expensive stationery that bore the name RADBURN HOUSE at the top. Her “references” were of course superior. I’d learned that she was a widow, and that her husband’s family had once owned an important printing house in Vancouver. Radburn was her maiden name, so the house where she lived belonged to her side of the family.

There was no question about her background of wealth and respectability. All this reassured me, in spite of her continued warning that the child in question was unlikely to be mine. So far, I knew no more about the little girl than I had in the beginning—not even the name by which she was called. Mrs. Arles would discuss nothing until she could talk with me face to face, though she’d made one troubling request.

“It’s best if you don’t use your own name when you come, Mrs. Blake. Perhaps your maiden name would serve?”

I was Jennifer Blake, but my friends called me Jenny, so I told her I would be Jenny Thorne.

By the time we landed in Seattle it was late afternoon, and I had just enough time to board a small plane for the half-hour flight to Victoria. We flew over water dotted with wooded islands that would have been interesting to see, if only I could have kept my mind quiet and my heart from thudding.

Mrs. Arles had told me on the phone that her car would meet me, and as I waited in the small airport building a dark-haired, muscular man, probably in his late thirties, approached to ask if I was Mrs. Thorne. An impressive pirate’s mustache drooped on each side of his mouth, but I couldn’t see his eyes because of smoky dark glasses. He wore a gray uniform and chauffeur’s cap, and while his manner was courteous, there seemed a slight flourish to his movements. I had the curious sense that he might be performing the role of chauffeur. He touched his cap, told me his name was Kirk, and took over capably with my bags as he led the way outdoors.

The air of mid-September seemed wonderfully clean and fresh, and the grounds about the airport displayed colorful plantings and emerald spreads of lawn. Mountains on Vancouver Island were visible to the west; the Gulf Islands to the east.

“This way, Mrs. Thorne.” Kirk gestured toward an elderly gray Mercedes that was probably a valuable antique. Once or twice he had given me a direct look that was out of character for this “role” he played, and I began to be curious about him.

“Have you been with Mrs. Arles for long?” I asked as he opened the door of the car for me.

He answered cryptically, “Long enough,” and I must have looked surprised, for he grinned and touched his cap again in an apology that wasn’t entirely genuine.

“Sorry, madam. I haven’t really been on this job for all that long. Only about six weeks, so I’m still learning.”

His manner might be just short of impertinent, yet it was somehow engaging. As though he played a good-natured joke.

“An actor out of work?” I guessed.

He started to laugh and then restrained himself. “You’re way off, Mrs. Thorne. But I’m an expert driver, and that’s all Mr. Dillow has required.”

He waited for me to get into the back seat, and I settled into leather luxury while he went around to store my bags in the trunk.

The well-paved highway to Victoria cut inland, with traffic coming toward us from the city, heading out to suburban homes after work. At times, tall stands of fir or cedar followed the road, so that I had the sense of a north country. The airport was surrounded by farms—market gardens for the city.

Perhaps Kirk could be a source of information about the house I was to visit, and I tried a question.

“This is my first visit to Victoria, and I’m not acquainted with Radburn House. Who is Mr. Dillow?”

The chauffeur answered readily. “He manages the house, and I guess he’s been in the service of the family for years. He’s more than a butler. He’s secretary, housekeeper, sometimes nurse—name it, and that’s what Elbert Dillow does. Since Mrs. Arles had her stroke, he runs everything.”

I hadn’t known she’d had a stroke. On the telephone Corinthea Arles had sounded vigorous and very much in charge.

“She’s recovered, hasn’t she?”

“Some, I suppose. I don’t see much of her, except to take her for a drive once in a while, but she seems to be a pretty powerful lady, even in a wheelchair.”

“Who else makes up the family?” I asked.

He didn’t seem to mind my questions, and as he answered he kept his attention properly on the road. “There’s just the old man left, it seems. Mrs. Arles’s younger brother. Which doesn’t make him very young. Mr. Dillow claims he’s a little daft and they hide him away up on the third floor.”

“And there’s no one else in the house?”

“You said family.” His tone changed and I sensed hesitation. “Right now there’s a visiting magician and his wife and child.”

“Visiting magician?”

Kirk, whose last name I had yet to learn, experienced a sudden attack of propriety. “Mr. Dillow and Mrs. Arles had better answer your questions. I’m too new on the job, madam.”

Thus reproved, I kept still for a time, though propriety was not my governing virtue. I didn’t need to ask whether the child was a boy or a girl, or how old she was. I knew. But that her “father” was a magician sounded somehow both ominous and promising. The word had an itinerant, circusy ring—people who might easily snatch a child and disappear.

After a time Kirk spoke again. “We’re in Victoria now, Mrs. Thorne, and since the sun’s going down the lights will be on. We’ll drive along Government Street, so you’ll catch the nighttime view. There—look ahead—you can see the Parliament Buildings.”

The sight was dramatic. A wide spread of stone buildings, all etched in light, stood against the darkening sky. The tall central dome, and every smaller dome, column, window, all glowed with dots of gold—like a stage set.

Kirk took on the role of guide. “The Victorian architect who designed those buildings—Francis Rattenbury—was mixed up in a sex and drug scandal and went off to England, where he was murdered by his wife’s lover. Pretty colorful stuff! Look over there across the corner of the Inner Harbor, Mrs. Thorne—that’s another grandiose Rattenbury creation. The Empress Hotel.”

These tidbits were delivered in what managed to be a mock-respectful tone. As though Kirk knew himself out-of-order, and enjoyed stepping over lines.

The hotel, set at a right angle to the Parliament Buildings, was immensely impressive—massive, sturdy, foursquare, its front covered with ivy.

“The Empress dates back to early in the century. When you go sightseeing, you’ll visit it and catch a glimpse of the way things used to be in the days when retired British colonists came here from India.”

Sections of slate rose steeply, with rows of peaked windows, and corner towers with their own vertical roofs. All the front of the hotel shone in the glow of spotlights, and the central facade gleamed a warm amber. Tall letters above the door spelled EMPRESS in white lights that were large enough to read as we drove along.

The lights of all the buildings were reflected in harbor waters, multiplying the effect.

My interest was passing, only momentary. I wasn’t here for sightseeing, and what lay outside this car couldn’t matter to me for long. In a little while we would arrive at Radburn House, and after that there could be a meeting at any time with the child who might be my daughter. But I mustn’t anticipate and make up imaginary scripts. It was better, for now, to talk to the man who was driving me.

“Are you from Victoria?”

“I’m from all over,” he told me lightly.

Obviously, he wasn’t going to talk about himself. I was silent again as we left the central buildings of the city behind, following a long street where rows of lighted houses stood side by side, fronted and separated by gardens. The street climbed and the car wound its way toward the top of a hill that must command a splendid view in the daytime. Houses and streets were left behind as the car’s headlights picked out a winding drive that climbed toward a structure commanding the hilltop.

“Here we are,” Kirk said, and I looked out to see the house that was to figure in my life for a longer period than I expected.

The front grounds were lighted, and there were lights in several tall windows. At first the house seemed narrow and cramped, but as I left the car and Kirk brought my bags around to steps that mounted from the side, I saw that it widened and ran back a considerable distance. There were two main stories, and a smaller addition that added a third floor at the top.

“Do you like gardens, Mrs. Thorne?” Kirk asked as we mounted the steps. “I expect you know that Victoria’s a city of gardens, but Mrs. Arles’s private garden is something special. It drops down a level or so at the back, and runs along the hill. Mr. Dillow says her parents planted it early in the century.”

I did indeed like gardens, thanks to my father, but now the front door of the house had opened upon the entry porch, and my attention was held.

A man who could only be Elbert Dillow stood in the lighted doorway—a small man, dressed in black, probably in his late fifties, with a straggle of graying hair around his otherwise bald head. His bright dark eyes examined me sharply, and I had an immediate sense of dignity, as well as an air of competence and authority that would compensate for his slight size.

“Good evening, Mrs. Thorne,” he said. “Please come in. I am Dillow.” Apparently I was to dispense with the “mister.” He nodded to Kirk. “Just take Mrs. Thorne’s bags up to her room. You know which one?”

The chauffeur’s manner was properly restrained again as he picked up my bags and went into the house.

“Perhaps you would like to go to your room first, Mrs. Thorne?” Dillow asked. “Then Mrs. Arles wishes to greet you. She would like you to dine with her tonight.”

This seemed fine, and I stepped into a lighted foyer, where a lower hall reached back behind the stairs, with doors opening down its length. Ahead, a staircase, carpeted in dark red, rose to a landing. Polished golden oak banisters ran upward, wide to my hand, with wings curving right and left. When I took the right-hand stairs at Dillow’s direction, I could look down toward the entryway to see two long stained glass windows on either side of the front door, gleaming blue and ruby red under electric lights.

“Your room is at the front, Mrs. Thorne,” Dillow said behind me.

The upper hallway was dimly lighted, but a door stood open and lamplight welcomed me. Kirk placed my largest bag on a luggage rack at the foot of a double bed and bowed slightly as he passed me and went quickly away. At another time I would have been very curious about that young man.

The butler cast a critical eye about the room and seemed to find everything in order. The bathroom across the hall would be mine, he said, and moved toward the door.

“I won’t be long,” I told him. “Where will I find Mrs. Arles?”

“Just come down the stairs, Mrs. Thorne. Since Mrs. Arles’s illness she prefers to stay in a first-floor room that overlooks the garden at the rear and is more convenient. The door will be open.”

When he’d gone I stood staring around the spacious, turn-of-the-century room. The walls, which had probably been papered when the house was built, were painted a pleasing blue-gray that reached to an oak picture rail. Above that, the strip of wall blended into the ceiling—a pale fawn color.

Patterned red Turkestan rugs lay scattered upon the dark parquet floor, at the foot of the bed and at the sides. A fireplace with an oak mantel, again dark and golden, had been set with, wood, though no fire was needed as yet. Long windows on each side of a french door were framed with flowered blue draperies. I opened the door to step outside, where carved wooden railings enclosed the small private porch. Beyond, the view was tremendous. I could look toward city lights and follow the shining, spangled water of the harbor where it cut into a right angle before the Empress Hotel and the Parliament Buildings.

Immediately below was the driveway, curving down from the house. I could look out upon one side to the steps by which I’d entered, and on the other to a rock garden that ran along the outside of the house. Daylight was nearly gone, and the evening was cool, so I went back inside.

When I stepped into the hall to look for the indicated bathroom, I heard a sound at the far end and saw that a man stood under a dim overhead light, leaning on a banister of the back stairs. I couldn’t make him out clearly, but he seemed to be watching me.

“Hello,” I called.

He didn’t answer but hurried away up the stairs. Was this Mrs. Arles’s younger brother, who had been referred to as “daft”?

When I’d washed in the old-fashioned bathroom that still displayed a tub on claw feet, I returned to my room to change from slacks to a gray skirt. A blouse came reasonably unwrinkled from my suitcase and the citron color cheered me a little.

It seemed to me that the reflection in the mirror as I combed my short brown hair bore little resemblance to the way I’d looked seven years ago, when Debbie was taken. I’d been heavier then, and my hair had hung below my shoulders. Now my eyes looked wide and shadowed in the glass and my expression had an anxious cast. I turned away, not liking what I saw.

Too much that was important hung on this meeting with Mrs. Arles, and a sense of panic was ready to stir in me at the very thought of meeting the child who lived in this house. So far I’d seen no one except the man on the stairs, and I wanted no sudden chance encounter until I had talked with Corinthea Arles.

On the first floor I walked past a spacious dining room, where the table was unset. At the rear of the hall I caught the flicker of firelight through an open door. Mrs. Arles heard me and called to me to come in.

The big room I stepped into was a library, now adapted to a different purpose because of need. Books still lined two walls, and walnut paneling around the rest of the room made it dark in spite of lamps and spears of flame in the grate. An old-fashioned bed had replaced other furniture, its headboard high and carved with grape clusters and leaves. A dressing table and bureau had further changed the room from a library. Near the fire that made the room seem overly warm to me sat a woman in a wheelchair. As I hesitated in the doorway, she turned her head to greet me.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Thorne. I am Corinthea Arles. Please come and sit down. No one else is home just now to interrupt us. I’ve seen to that.”

Apparently the man I’d glimpsed on the stairs didn’t count, any more than Dillow did.

Even in a wheelchair Mrs. Arles looked thoroughly in charge. Light from the fire played over her thin nose with its delicate aristocratic nostrils, and upon rouge-touched lips that might have been full, if the habit of suppressing all smiles hadn’t long ago been imprinted. Her gray hair shone like dark silver and was waved high and pinned with amber combs. Cut in an ageless princess style, her garnet-red robe had been embroidered with touches of gold at the collar and in the looped frog closings. I had an immediate impression of pride that would probably govern this woman in all things.

As I took her outstretched hand, feeling its sculptured bones in my own, I was aware of a light scent of violets—sweet but faint. None of this perfection of grooming was for me, I was sure. I suspected that when Corinthea Arles was entirely alone she would give just such attention to personal details for her own satisfaction.

At her invitation I sat down in an armless slipper chair on the other side of the hearth and waited for whatever pleasantries about my trip would begin our conversation. I was to learn quickly that Mrs. Arles never bothered with such conventions. She studied me for a moment, her expression neither approving nor disapproving. She must have been in her early seventies, but her face was so surprisingly unlined that I was reminded of a mask. Only her dark eyes flashed with a light she couldn’t altogether conceal.

This very lack of expression was unsettling, but I was to learn later that Mrs. Arles had long ago decided that animation could result only in lines and wrinkles, and she had banished all such aging outward emotions from her face. Her impassivity and fixed look made me uncomfortable, even though I suspected they were deceptive. Her voice, and sometimes the movements of her hands, gave her away.

When satisfied about me—though she betrayed no inkling of her conclusions—she plunged at once into the matter at hand. “I’ve sent the Corwins and the child away for the evening. I wanted to talk with you before you meet any of them. They know I have a visitor coming, but of course they have no suspicion of who you are or why you’ve come. The situation, as I’ve told you, is much too complicated to be explained on the telephone. I don’t like or trust this pair and, as I also told you, I had an odd feeling about the child when I saw your little girl’s picture in a magazine. It’s because of the Corwins that I’ve asked you not to use your married name.”

Because they might be the kidnappers who had taken Debbie? Questions seethed in me, but I held them back and waited, knowing she would tell me the story in her own way.

One thin hand moved to touch a comb in her hair, making sure every strand was in place, and the firelight caught the red of her garnet ring. Then she turned her head and addressed the shadowy room beyond the bed, where light hardly reached.

“Crampton, you may leave us alone now.”

A large woman in a white uniform—of whose presence I’d been totally unaware—rose and went into the hall, moving lightly and quickly, in spite of her size.

“Crampton knows everything,” Mrs. Arles assured me. “Just as Dillow does. She’s been my personal maid and companion for twenty years. Lately, she’s been my nurse as well. But I feel that you would prefer privacy in our first conversation.”

“Thank you,” I said, and again I waited, trying to control my impatience.

“I must warn you,” Mrs. Arles went on, “that the little girl, Alice, is not an attractive child. Most of the time she seems sullen and unfriendly.”

I found it difficult to swallow. Debbie had been a happy little girl. Even her tempers were only summer storms.

“Please tell me all of it,” I said. “Why did you say you hoped this child wouldn’t prove to be mine?”

“Because she is supposed to be my great-granddaughter,” Mrs. Arles said impassively. “More than anything in the world I would like to be convinced that she’s of my family’s blood. Even if Alice Arles isn’t the most pleasing child in the world, that might change if she were taken out of the hands of the people who claim to be her mother and stepfather.”

“Claim to be?”

“It’s undoubtedly true that this dreadful woman was married to my grandson. All her papers seem in order. Her present husband is a professional magician. He does tricks—magic!” Scorn cut through her voice, though her face remained still as a sculpture. “Their story is that they were working together in Brazil when they met my grandson. Farley Corwin had lived in that country when he was young and he spoke Portuguese. The woman performed as an assistant in his act and traveled with him, though they weren’t married to each other then.”

Mrs. Arles’s hands moved in angry dismissal, as though she could hardly bear to speak of this couple who now visited her home.

“Edward, my grandson, had joined an expedition that was studying medicinal plants in the jungles along the Amazon. He met those two in some small city where Corwin was performing. It is my conviction that they pursued him with a plot in mind. Of course Edward should never have gone out there at all. I raised him in this house from the time when his parents died in a boating accident, and I sent him away to good schools. He could have stepped into the family printing business and done brilliantly—he was capable and intelligent.”

She paused to breathe deeply, quieting inner emotion. I felt a twinge of sympathy for her grandson, who might have been driven to escape.

“We quarreled, Edward and I. He did something unforgivable and I disinherited him. I told him I never wanted to see him again. Anyone who betrays a trust …” Ivory knuckles showed as she clenched her hands, and I watched her relax them deliberately.

“This is upsetting for you,” I said. “Would you like to wait until tomorrow for the rest?” I didn’t want to wait, but Mrs. Arles had been ill, and all this suppressed emotion worried me.

“I don’t permit myself to be upset,” she said quietly. “What I am telling you is long in the past. Edward went away nearly fifteen years ago. Eventually, he went to Brazil, where he married this dreadful woman, and she accompanied him on the expedition. There must have been some sort of plot between this magician and the woman, because Corwin signed on with the expedition as an assistant cook and went along too. My grandson”—for just an instant her voice quavered—“my grandson drowned in an accident on the river. It must have been a horrible death. There were alligators and piranhas in those waters. By that time Edward’s wife was pregnant, or so she claims, and she sent Edward’s things to me, and wrote me about the child she was to have.”

Mrs. Arles was suddenly still, and a log fell in the grate, startling me.

“You saw the baby when it was born?” I asked softly.

“Indeed I did not. I didn’t care to because I didn’t want to believe this woman was carrying my grandson’s child. It could just as easily have been the child of the magician. I guessed from the first that these people wanted money, and a child might be a means of getting it from me. After Edward’s death the woman married Farley Corwin. Except for the pictures they kept sending me, I never saw the child until she was four years old. The mother had been writing to me all along, asking to bring her here.”

I leaned forward eagerly. “Do you have those pictures?”

“Unfortunately, no. I threw them away. I’d wanted nothing to do with my grandson, and I wanted no child he might have had by this woman. I saw the little girl only once, as I say, when she was four years old, and then only because they brought her deliberately to my house and I let them in so I could see her. I felt no more than idle curiosity.”

“Is this why you recognized the picture of my Debbie? Because you’d seen this little girl when she was four?”

“It’s possible. I don’t know. I was so angry with the effrontery of those people, and so suspicious of them, that I didn’t allow them to stay for more than a few hours. I still couldn’t believe that Alice was my grandson’s child.”

I thought about all this unhappily. If there had never been a baby, the early pictures the Corwins sent could have been of any baby at all. Later, still hoping to get through to Mrs. Arles, they could have needed to produce a real child of the right age—to be ready. They could have kept the child for a year or so—long enough to make her forget me, forget her grandparents. It was all unlikely, yet with a thread of possibility that made me uncertain.

“Where did their letters come from?” I asked.

“They’d returned from Brazil, so some came from the States. Sometimes from Canada. Or from St. Petersburg, Chicago, Los Angeles.”

They wouldn’t, of course, have written from the town, or even from the state from which Debbie had been taken.

“Why did you change your mind about seeing them?”

“A few months ago I came near to dying. That made a difference in the way I felt toward a child of Edward’s, no matter who the mother was. There are no descendants left to me. My younger brother, Timothy, is unable to manage anything. He has never married and never will. I thought if I could find some way to be sure about this child—that she really was Edward’s—then something might be done. They arrived as a family about two months ago, and hard as it is for me to have them here, I took them into the house where I could watch them, listen, perhaps learn something significant that would make me sure one way or the other. The child resembles my grandson to some small degree. Though she has fair hair, where his was dark. She has blue eyes like his, and her face is even shaped somewhat like Edward’s. But who knows? If she was stolen, she might have been chosen for the resemblance.”

“Debbie had blue eyes,” I said softly.

Mrs. Arles turned her head away. “Recently, when I saw the picture of your little girl, as I told you on the phone, there was a moment when I believed that Alice Arles might be your child. That sort of quick recognition, however sharp, doesn’t last when one begins to examine features, but it was a strong impression. I thought if you could be certain, then I would know all this was exactly the plot I’ve always suspected, and you might recover your child. If not, then I may be forced to accept their claim and do for this child what I could never do for my grandson.”

“You’ve checked blood types, of course?”

“Yes. She could be my grandson’s child. Her blood type also fits the records you sent. Which again proves nothing.”

“What about the child’s birth certificate?”

“She was born in Brazil, supposedly in some small place where record-keeping wasn’t of the best. There are papers and they seem to be in order. My attorneys have investigated, but I’m not sure that bribery couldn’t have managed the whole thing.”

“When will I see the little girl?”

“Not until tomorrow. I knew you’d be tired and anxious tonight, and I didn’t want any chance meeting. You must be prepared when it happens. So I sent them all off to dinner and a movie, and they won’t be home for hours.”

I’d wanted to talk with Mrs. Arles first, but now further postponement didn’t help my state of mind.

“If these are the people who kidnapped Debbie, then they may recognize me,” I suggested. “They must have been watching me in the store that day, though my hair is short now, and I’m a lot thinner than I was then.”

“That should help. Besides, you’re out of context here. They aren’t likely to expect the child’s mother to turn up in Victoria in the same house. Not after all these years. I doubt if they saw the magazine article. I’ve kept it away from them.”

“If they recognize me, they may run.”

“Should that happen, they’d probably leave the girl behind, which could be proof of a sort. But I doubt that they’d give up their scheme so easily. The burden of proof would be on you, and they might brazen it out. The man strikes me as an adventurer—a risk-taker. So they might hold to their story. Unless you are absolutely sure, we can’t even bring in the police. On the other hand—if you could recognize them …”

I no longer knew how sure I could be about anything. I might never have seen the man, and the woman had hidden her hair and eyes and been deliberately nondescript.

“Let’s have supper now,” Mrs. Arles decided. “This talk is tiring us both, and you must be hungry.” She raised her voice slightly. “Crampton?”

The woman appeared from the hall instantly, and I wondered how much privacy we’d really had.

“Please tell Dillow we are ready to eat,” Mrs. Arles said.

The meal arrived with such dispatch that he must have been hovering nearby as well. He set a small drop-leaf table with linen and silver, pulled up a chair for me, and pushed Mrs. Arles’s wheelchair into place. A cart with silver-covered dishes was wheeled in, and we were served poached salmon with dill sauce, green peas perfectly undercooked, a leafy salad and hot rolls, whisked from an oven. Then Dillow stood back and waited.

That was the moment when I sensed that something was wrong between the butler-manager and his mistress. A clear disapproval seemed to emanate from Dillow. Not so much toward me as toward Mrs. Arles. Her look rested on him sharply, and he stared directly back for just an instant, so that I was aware of tension between them.

Then Mrs. Arles nodded. “Thank you, Dillow. Tell Grace everything is fine. And you might phone Dr. Radburn, since he is expecting a call. If he is here in an hour, everything should work out nicely. Crampton, I’ll ring when I need you, so have your own supper.”

The shadowy Crampton murmured something respectful and disappeared again.

Dillow said, “Yes, madam,” stiffly and also went away. His behavior was again impeccable, and there was no further hint of stress between the man who ran this house and the woman he worked for.

While we ate, Mrs. Arles explained about Dr. Radburn. “Joel is a cousin, as you might guess from his name. Though distant. He’s not in private practice as a doctor any more, since he has gone into research—quite important research. In a sense, he inherited me as a patient from his father, who died last year, and who was my doctor and friend for much of my adult life. Joel keeps a careful eye on me. He knows everything about you that I know, and he approves of my bringing you here. He agrees with my doubts about the child. He’s also been looking after my brother whenever it was necessary. Joel is in his late thirties and is the son of his father’s second marriage. He has been observing the child, Alice, and he can answer some of the questions about her you may have.”

I couldn’t think of any questions, except for the one that possessed me entirely—would I recognize her? Already I was steeling myself for failure.

“You may need to stay here for a few days.” Mrs. Arles spoke quietly, perhaps aware of the anxiety that must have shown in my face. “When you talk with the child, some memory may emerge—though it might not come at once. You must sleep tonight, so try to relax now. Perhaps you’d like to take a book upstairs with you. We’ve a fine library here.”

I’d noticed a thick volume on a table near her wheelchair. A bookmark showed her place, and reading glasses rested on the green jacket.

She saw the direction of my glance. “That book might interest you. I ordered it as soon as I knew it was published, since it’s an account by Frank Karsten of the expedition he led into Amazon jungles all those years ago. The expedition on which my grandson died. Unfortunately, since my illness I’ve had trouble with my eyes, and I’ve only been able to read a few pages at a time. Karsten has died since the book was published.”

“I wonder if the Corwins are mentioned?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t get very far. If you’d like to read it, take the book along to your room. Then you can tell me if you find anything interesting.”

It wasn’t Edward Arles’s life or death that concerned me now and I was already thinking of something else. Mrs. Arles seemed to call Mrs. Corwin “the woman” when she spoke of her—a label of denigration. Now I asked her first name.

“It’s such a ridiculous name that I can’t bear to use it,” she told me. “Though perhaps it suits her well enough. She’s called Peony.”

Peony. Yes, rather a silly name, except for a flower. I tried to remember the nondescript woman in dark glasses—an uncertain, nervous woman—but the dim memory would neither accept nor dismiss the name.

When the front doorbell sounded, I heard Dillow go to answer it. A deep voice greeted him cheerfully, and Dr. Radburn came quickly back to the library. Dillow had already removed our dishes and brought in small plates with Camembert cheese and wheat wafers. He busied himself pouring coffee, while Dr. Radburn bent to kiss Mrs. Arles’s cheek. Dillow, I suspected, wanted to miss nothing.

The doctor was tall and rather slender, with dark brown hair conventionally cut. A slight line creased vertically between gray eyes that regarded me in friendly appraisal. The line, I thought, was probably not a frown but more likely grew from hours of concentration. His smile seemed warm in a pleasantly homely face that one might grow used to comfortably. No one had really smiled at me since my arrival, except for the impudent chauffeur.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Mrs. Thorne,” he said as he took my hand. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but we hope you can settle one part of the dilemma. Perhaps to your advantage, if you recognize the little girl.”

Dillow brought another chair and Dr. Radburn sat down, accepting a cup of coffee.

“I have told Mrs. Thorne what I know about the Corwins,” Mrs. Arles said. “At least I’ve prepared her for their unusual background, which has undoubtedly affected the child.”

Dr. Radburn glanced at Dillow in a questioning way, and Mrs. Arles dismissed the butler with a casual “You may go, Dillow.” When he’d left the room, she spoke to the doctor. “It will be done my way, Joel.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Dr. Radburn said dryly, and spoke to me. “You haven’t seen Alice yet?”

I shook my head. “Will you tell me about her, please?”

His eyes were deep set and there was no smile in them as he seemed to study me. “She’s lonely, I think. Neither of the Corwins seems to have much imagination as far as Alice is concerned. Though the child is all imagination—maybe too much so. She and her mother have a sometimes affectionate, sometimes angry relationship, but Peony is under the domination of her husband, and Alice resents that and clearly dislikes her stepfather. For her sake, I hope that she can be taken out of the Corwins’ hands, one way or another.”

I looked at Mrs. Arles. “You mean they would give her up to you?”

Dr. Radburn answered for her. “I’m sure that Farley Corwin would accept a sum of money that he might regard as suitable, if the mother were to give the child up to her great-grandmother.”

“What about this loss for the—the mother?”

“She’ll do as she’s told, as Dr. Radburn suggests,” Mrs. Arles assured me.

I must have shivered, for the doctor spoke quickly. “You look tired, Mrs. Thorne. All this is distressing on top of your long flight. Would you like something to help you sleep?”

I shook my head. “I’d rather not. But you’re right—I am very tired.” I’d had all I could take. I wanted to get away before I found myself in tears.

“Of course,” Mrs. Arles said. “I’ve kept you up far too long, considering the difference in time zones. So run along now, and sleep as long as you like in the morning. Breakfast will be on the buffet in the dining room, and you can go in when you like.”

I remembered to take the book by Frank Karsten with me, though I doubted that I could concentrate on reading for long.

Dr. Radburn spoke to Mrs. Arles. “I’ll look in on Uncle Tim before I leave. We have a serial chess game going. Good night, Corinthea. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He came with me to the branching flight of stairs and we started up together, turning right at the landing.

“You’ve been told about Mrs. Arles’s stroke?” he asked as we reached the second floor.

“Yes, it’s been mentioned.”

“We try to see that she doesn’t get upset these days.”

“That must be difficult with the Corwins here.”

“I hope you won’t add to the problem,” he said gravely, and went off toward the rear stairs to the third floor.

I started toward my room at the front, where I’d left my door ajar. It was closed now, so probably Dillow had been up here. I opened it to a sense of movement inside—to something that slipped away just beyond my line of vision. The room was quiet—too quiet, as though it waited for something to happen. A single lamp I’d left burning was still on and the room seemed even bigger and more shadowy than I remembered.

“Is someone here?” I asked.

This time a faint breath was released. The sound came from behind a corner chair, and I went quickly to reach into darkness and pull out the girl who was crouching there.