"Madam," said Joshua, with a remorseful droop of his eyelids, "please accept my most profound apologies. I was caught in the rain, and Miss Manning offered me a lift. I never imagined it would take quite so long to drive there and back." As he spoke he flung his sodden coat over a chair. Water began to drip off the hem and form a pool on the floor. He pushed up his sleeves and donned his paint-stained smock before moving briskly to his worktable. With practised ease he took out his paint box, removed the tacks with which he stoppered bladders of paint, and began to squeeze out miniature dollops onto his palette. He placed a nugget of glistening lead white next to his thumb and then, in a wide crescent, Naples yellow, orpiment, vermilion, red ocher, burnt umber, bone black, smalt, and Prussian blue, like gems waiting to be strung. This done, he drew small amounts to the center and mixed various shades, thinning the paint with linseed where necessary.

He was aware that Sabine Mercier was watching him closely from behind the easel. She sniffed the air, which was heavily scented with linseed, paint, and spirit, and shook her head.

"I grant you were not to know it, but I intend to go to London this afternoon directly after this sitting. Let us proceed now without further delay, or I shall be late for my appointment."

With no more fuss than that, she took up her pose, reclining on the seat with her head turned slightly away from him, so that the underside of her chin was visible. She wasn't dressed as she would be in the portrait. The grand gown-stiff-bodiced, made of ivory sarcenet silk embroidered with purple and crimson flowers-currently clad a life-sized lay wooden figure that stood in one corner of Joshua's painting room. Nevertheless she wore her precious emerald necklace, and as it caught the light, it burned an angry shade of green. The box in which she stored it was open on his side table. He made some small adjustments to her position. He raised her arm. He unfurled a lace sleeve to expose the flesh. He turned her head just so, as if he were arranging flowers in a vase. He tweaked the curtain half closed.

Then he returned to his easel. He had already completed the first stage and now he began the second, working up the composition, using glazes of color to define the way the light fell and shadows emerged and retreated over the face and on the curve of her arm and breast. He painted in silence. Chitchat while he worked was anathema to him. In any case it was obvious that Sabine Mercier was already annoyed and to talk would only risk rousing further irritation.

After a few minutes, however, she broke the silence, still holding her head perfectly still as she spoke. "Did you say you were out walking, Mr. Pope?"

He scarcely heard her. She coughed, reminding him of his manners, and he was forced to answer. "I went to Richmond, ma'am," he said, applying a wash of bluish gray upon a layer of oyster.

"For what purpose?"

"None in particular, madam. Merely a desire to enjoy these beautiful environs."

"And what did you do in Richmond?"

"There is a well-known posting inn, the Star and Garter. The gardens there are quite famous. I went for some refreshment and found it most pleasant."

He glanced up, curious to see her reaction to the name of the inn. Her head was still perfectly immobile; her expression betrayed no more than the mildest curiosity at this information.

"Indeed? I have never been there," she replied, "though if the gardens are pretty, perhaps I should."

"They cannot hold a candle to Astley, ma'am, but I hazard you might enjoy them. While I was there I fell into conversation with the landlord, a Mr. Dunstable. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow. He chanced to mention that the man you discovered dead in the pinery had stayed there."

Sabine's expression remained unchanged and she continued to hold her position. Yet she had stiffened imperceptibly. There was a new gleam in her eye and a slight change in the timbre of her voice. "What a curious subject to 'chance' upon. What did this Dunstable say about the dead man? How did he know it was the same man who was dead in the pinery? Did you show him a sketch perhaps?" Her voice was soft yet laden with irony.

Joshua looked up. In the half-light her silhouetted profile was cast upon the wall. Her brow jutted forward, her nose had become a distorted beak, her chin had all but disappeared into the column of her neck; she looked half human and strangely predatory. Joshua shivered involuntarily.

"I learned the dead man's name from Granger, after you asked me to question him on your behalf. His name was on a letter in his pocket. John Cobb."

There was a pause as she digested this information. She turned. "John Cobb, did you say? Are you quite certain that was the name?" she said, as if she had never heard the name before.

"Indeed, ma'am, there was no doubt at all."

"What else did you learn?" Her tone was now one of disinterest, as if she were humoring him with her questions.

"Naught save that he stayed for several weeks, and on the day of his disappearance, early the same morning you found him, he departed saying he would be back shortly. Only he never returned."

"Is that all? Had he no callers? Did he mention no reason for being here?

Something in the detached persistence of her questions made Joshua wary. Or perhaps it was that lowering black shadow on the wall, or his natural discretion. In any event, he thought it prudent for the time being to play his hand close and not to mention Herbert's visit.

"He had no callers that the landlord remembered. The trouble with such fellows is that, seeing all manner of people coming and going through their door, they forget the individual. Unless there is something wildly remarkable, faces merge into one, facts become blurred. Mr. Cobb may well have divulged his reasons for coming, but Dunstable has a feeble mind and remembers things no better than lace keeps you warm. Anything he knew has escaped him days ago."

"And what of Granger? You say you spoke to him as I asked. Had he anything further to reveal concerning the dead man? Was there anything on his person to reveal his origins or intentions?"

Joshua knew he must tell her something or she would not be satisfied, and there was nothing to be gained by arousing her suspicion or her wrath. How much should he reveal? Certainly not that Granger suspected she knew the dead man. He looked at her surrept.i.tiously and found that, though her head remained turned away as the pose demanded, she seemed to be watching him closely from the corner of her eye. Something in her expression was curiously expectant. He was aware in that instant of a peculiar sensation creeping upon him. He remembered the look of trepidation on Caroline Bentnick's face the evening before in the drawing room. Was he being fanciful to sense an air of menace about Sabine Mercier? Caroline must have felt it, and so too now did he-although it wasn't terror that she aroused in him so much as inquisitiveness. He wanted to discover what inspired her malevolent gleam. If he had any doubts before, he was certain now that she must have been involved in some subterfuge-otherwise, why ask him to discover what Granger knew, and why conceal the fact that she knew Cobb? A disturbing thought then occurred to Joshua. Given her questionable actions and reticence, did it follow that Francis and Caroline were correct in their suspicions? Was she involved in his death?

"Granger said little of interest, save that Cobb came looking for employment a few days ago, and as I told you before, that he found two letters in his pocket, which is how he learned his name."

"What became of the letters?"

"He handed them to Mr. Bentnick."

She seemed to consider this for a moment; she pa.s.sed no remark, yet Joshua sensed she wasn't entirely pleased to hear that Herbert had the letters. "Is that all? Did Granger read them? He said nothing of the contents?"

"Nothing at all, ma'am. He claims there was no time. He saw only the name."

With that, mercifully, she seemed satisfied, and Joshua returned his attentions to his canvas. He found, however, that his concentration was shaken. Part of him wanted to return to his work, and part of him was tempted to probe her on the matter of her necklace and her curious conversation with Caroline Bentnick. In the end, the professional side of him won, although, as he painted, the idea that Sabine might have killed poor Cobb continued to disturb him profoundly. He told himself he was jumping to conclusions; there were countless other reasons why she might withhold the fact she knew Cobb; it didn't mean she was a murderess. Nevertheless, his preoccupations affected his ability to paint. He was oddly agitated, daubing a little mixture of lead white and umber onto the canvas with unusual hesitancy.

Very soon after that, the clock sounded three. Sabine rose abruptly from her seat. "Mercy me, 'tis past the hour for me to go. I had meant to leave you half an hour ago."

"Forgive me, madam. The fault is all mine for keeping you waiting."

"I will not disagree with you, Mr. Pope. But there's a further service you can do me if you will."

"You have only to name it, madam," he said, bowing decorously.

"Look after my necklace for me. You can use it for the painting if it pleases you." She walked to the side table where she had placed the s.h.a.green box, unfastened the necklace, and placed it reverentially on the silk lining. Her pupils were large and dilated, as though handling it brought her some secret rapture. "I must leave directly."

"Forgive me, madam, but would it not be better for me to summon your maid?"

"Marie has gone to Richmond on an errand for me and will only return later this afternoon."

"I regret, madam, that I am expected by Mr. Bentnick at dinner."

"Never mind. Place it somewhere safe in the meantime. And after dinner, once you have finished painting it, pa.s.s it straight to Marie to put away. You do me a great service. I have not the time to do it myself, since I am already late in leaving for London, and nor do I want to take it with me. It is much too precious to risk losing to a highwayman."

Joshua took the box and locked it in the drawer of his worktable. "Very well. Please do not worry about it. After dinner I will send for Marie directly and hand it to her," he said.

Sabine thanked him and then, with a brief word that she would not be available to sit for the portrait until three days hence, on her return from London, she left.

As soon as she had gone, he placed his palette facedown in a trough of water to keep the paints soft and cleaned his hands. He then repaired to his bedchamber, removed his smock, donned a dry coat-sky blue silk with gray braid-and his periwig; and splashing a little rose water about his person to disguise the smell of turpentine and linseed, he went down for dinner. The morning room clock was striking the quarter hour as he entered. For the second time that day he was late.

Chapter Twelve.

IT WAS ONLY as the dinner was well under way and the servants had loaded the table with the second course-large tureens of boiled pike and cabbage, and venison ragout-that Joshua made his excuses. His tone was grave, his expression suitably somber.

"Forgive me, Mr. Bentnick," he said, "but since Mrs. Mercier is gone to London, I think it best I too return there for a day or two. The portrait is well advanced, but I prefer not to continue with it until I have both of you to sit. Painting one without the other may affect the delicate rapport between your figures and spoil the whole."

All this, of course, was utter hogwash. He wanted to call on Bartholomew h.o.a.re, the attorney who had visited Cobb at the inn. Nonetheless, Joshua's smoothly delivered excuse was convincing enough. Anxious that nothing should impair the perfection of the painting, Herbert agreed to let him go without complaint. He too had much to occupy him. They thus cordially agreed that Joshua would remain in London until such time as he received word of Mrs. Mercier's return, which Herbert estimated would be no later than the end of the week.

JOSHUA couldn't help reflecting on Herbert's reticence. Until today he had thought his patron harmless, his idiosyncratic interest in all manner of subjects endearing. And on what had he based this judgment? No more than a smooth, round face and placid expression and the opinion of others, who probably saw him only thrice a year. Was this a sound basis for his appraisal? Bearing in mind Dunstable's testimony, he doubted it was. He began to wonder what lay behind the unruffled countenance. And the more he wondered, the more dubious he became. Perhaps something more than conviviality lay behind that courteous smile.

He considered what he knew about the corpse. Sabine and Granger had both described it in some detail. Cobb showed no signs of an a.s.sault upon his person but he had vomited immediately before he died. Although Joshua was no expert in the field, it seemed probable that poison might account for this evidence. Were his patrons capable of such an action? Joshua remembered that Sabine's father was a medical man and that Herbert took a keen interest in matters scientific. Furthermore, Herbert's perfunctory treatment of Cobb's death and his concealment of his meeting with him would make sense if he were somehow involved in it. But was he a murderer, an accomplice, or merely trying to conceal something for reasons unknown?

Just as Joshua asked himself these alarming questions, Herbert put down his knife and fork and dabbed his chin with his napkin. "By the by," he said in a soft voice, "if you can make yourself ready quickly after the meal is over, I can offer you a ride to the Strand. I intend to go there myself on urgent business. I leave within the hour."

Joshua muttered a few words of thanks and, having bolted his dessert, rushed to his rooms to gather his few belongings together. He collected his brushes, spatulas, pots of ground pigment, and bladders of mixed paint and stowed them in their mahogany carrying case. He went to the worktable, wherein he had secreted Sabine Mercier's precious jewel in its case. He half opened the drawer and speedily removed his possessions: his watch and a ring left to him by his father, his pocket book and a silver snuffbox-both gifts from grateful patrons. He stowed these treasured objects in his coat pocket, then closed the drawer.

Remembering his promise to Sabine, he rang the bell in his room to summon a servant and sent him for Sabine's maid, Marie. While he waited for Marie he took out his clothes from the closet and placed them carefully in his portmanteau. But five minutes later, the servant had yet to return. Joshua rang the bell again, pacing impatiently about his room as five minutes more ticked by. He scoured the corridor for signs of the servant. Joshua fancied he could hear voices down below. Anxious not to rile Herbert, Joshua proceeded downstairs. He would find another servant and give him instructions regarding the necklace.

No sooner had he reached the hall than the carriage drew up at the steps and Herbert bustled down the stairs, bidding farewell to Violet and his children, and a pair of pugs bouncing at his heels, as fulsomely as if he were intending to leave for America rather than an overnight trip to London. What should Joshua do? Perhaps the reason Marie had not come to him was that she was not yet returned from Richmond. In any case, even if she had, it would take him several minutes to ascertain where she was. Crimsoning at his dilemma, he turned round, looking for a servant who wasn't occupied with doing something for Herbert, one he could despatch for Marie.

"Is something amiss, Pope?" said Herbert, observing Joshua looking unusually agitated as he tried to attract the attentions of the third footman, who was loading his bags onto the back of Herbert's carriage with monumental slowness.

"Indeed, sir, there is something it is imperative for me to do before we leave, but I am loath to cause you the inconvenience of a delay."

Herbert looked alarmed. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I sent a servant to perform the commission, sir, but I waited an age and he never returned."

"Explain yourself properly, sir. What is it? It cannot be as grave as all that. There must surely be a remedy." He was playing his role as a concerned patron to perfection.

"Mrs. Mercier entrusted her necklace to me, since she was in a hurry to leave for London before dinner. I was supposed to hand the jewel to her maid, Marie, immediately after dinner. I sent a servant for her just now, but she never came. I don't want to leave without carrying out my undertaking."

"Where is the necklace now?"

"Where I left it. In its box in the furthest corner of the drawer of the writing table in my room."

"Ha! Is that all? Such a magnificent lather over such a trifling matter! Don't concern yourself any more about it. The jewel will be perfectly safe." Turning to Violet, he said, "Dear girl, it will be no trouble for you to go immediately to Mr. Pope's rooms and retrieve the jewel until you can hand it to Marie for safekeeping."

Violet regarded Herbert and then Joshua. For the first time Joshua was honored with a smile. "Of course, Mr. Bentnick. It will be no trouble at all. I will go directly. Caroline, would you be so kind as to show me the way to Mr. Pope's rooms? I don't believe I know where they are."

Chapter Thirteen.

THE JOURNEY TO London in Herbert's carriage took barely two hours and proved mercifully uneventful. So it was that by six that evening, having sent on his bags to his rooms in Saint Martin's Lane, Joshua Pope arrived at the door of his mistress's lodgings.

Meg Dunn was an impoverished widow whom Joshua had met six months after the deaths of his wife and son. She was no subst.i.tute for Rachel, being at least ten years older than he (she admitted to forty), with a teenage daughter and no education or accomplishments to speak of. But her bed was warm and she was agreeable and clean, and furthermore she flattered him outrageously, something he recognized yet enjoyed. He was in the habit of calling upon her every Wednesday and Sat.u.r.day, and since he was generous by nature, more often than not he brought a little present to cheer her. Today, as he was feeling hungry, he had stopped off at a chophouse and bought a meat pudding (one of Meg's favorites) and a bottle of claret.

He mounted the dingy staircase to Meg's rooms and knocked on her door, holding the pudding away from him so that the fatty juices seeping through the wax paper wouldn't stain his coat. He waited. Where was she? She shouldn't expect his two guineas a month if she was not ready when he called. He always came at about this hour and today was Wednesday, his day. He banged again. Hunger gnawed his belly. He craved the soothing effect of wine and Meg's ministrations after such an eventful day.

Joshua thumped repeatedly on the door with such force he could feel the hinges groan. He was on the point of going home and sending Meg a curt note when he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps and m.u.f.fled voices in the hallway below. He leaned over the banisters. He could see the top of Meg's head (the bonnet was one he had given her) and the dark triangle of a male hat beside her.

"Meg," he shouted out, "where are you? You're late."

Two faces tilted up: a pale moon surrounded by an aureole of fair hair and yellow straw hat; a florid, fat-cheeked orb framed with a gray periwig. "Mr. Pope? Is it you? I thought you were gone away," Meg said. Her eyes were round with surprise but she flashed him a smile before jerking her head at her companion, who scowled and bolted out the way he had come.

"Who the devil was that?" Joshua said as she hastened up the stairs and embraced him as if she hadn't seen him for a year. "Careful, careful. Mind my coat, mind the pudding."

Meg murmured something about how inspired he was to know she was positively starving. Her companion was of no importance-a distant cousin of her dear departed husband's who had come to call unexpectedly. She was delighted to have an excuse to be rid of him; the fellow was the most unutterable bore and had insisted on promenading her around Vauxhall Gardens for the entire afternoon. He had barely let her sit for a second and her feet were quite worn out. From the way she slightly averted her eyes, and the corners of her lips drew tight, Joshua knew that she was not being entirely truthful. But he was in no mood for a squabble.

After they had eaten the pie and consumed the wine, Meg walked to her bedroom. Through the open door Joshua watched as she unpinned her hair. It ran in a crinkly river of strawberry blond down her back. She was pretty for her age; her face was round and flowerlike, her skin so pale you could see the veins on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She removed her outer clothing and corsets; she was alluringly rounded, with a generous bottom, pendulous b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and slender ankles, which Joshua greatly admired. She returned dressed only in her chemise and petticoat and stockings and sat on his lap. She opened the ties of her chemise and pulled his head to her bosom. Joshua slid his hand beneath her petticoat and stroked the soft flesh of her thigh. "Meg," he said urgently, "have you missed me?"

"Of course," said Meg, removing his wig and placing it carefully on the side table before she began stroking his neck. "I always do, Joshua. You know that."

He snuggled into the soft folds of her flesh and she sighed contentedly.

"That man you were with? He was not-"

"No, my dearest. I told you, did I not?" She was fingering the b.u.t.tons of his breeches, prizing between his drawers, pressing and kneeding him as if he were dough she were shaping. Joshua became quickly aroused and soon ignored the distinct p.r.i.c.kle of apprehension he felt. He knew he should press her further, warn her he expected fidelity (he was petrified of contracting the pox), chastise her even; but faced with imminent pleasure, he was helpless. He kissed her, feeling her tongue probe his mouth. He stretched out his legs obligingly while she pulled off his boots and stockings and breeches. He stood and kissed her again, this time more urgently, on her neck; then, dropping to his knees, he lifted the chemise to nuzzle the underside of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and curve of her belly while she trailed her fingers across the back of his neck. He tucked one arm around her back and the other under her thighs and carried her off to her bed.

As he placed her gently down on the mattress, he remarked that the linen was in disarray and felt a small shiver of regret. He would have to confront her, or she would presume him to be a fool and continue to take advantage of him. But then, just as he opened his mouth to mention it, Meg caught hold of his shoulders and pulled him down on her belly. For the time being at least, he forgot everything.

AN HOUR LATER, Joshua kissed Meg farewell and returned at a brisk pace to his rooms in Saint Peter's Court, a small alley off Saint Martin's Lane.

The building where he lived was halfway down the court. It was well appointed, though no different from countless other brick-fronted, four-storey terraced houses in London with sash windows, three steps up to the front door, and a semibas.e.m.e.nt wherein the kitchen and the servants' quarters were situated.

Joshua counted himself fortunate. His rooms were exactly what he needed-light and airy and s.p.a.cious. He had moved here only two months earlier, after responding to a notice in the London Journal London Journal, believing that a change might help a.s.suage painful memories of Rachel and Benjamin. The owner of the property was a fractious widow by the name of Mrs. Quick, who, on Joshua's application, claimed she had been inundated with responses to her notice. Determined to secure the lodgings, Joshua mentioned that his wife had recently died (in the hope of sympathy), that he was a painter by profession (in the hope that she might know his name), and that because of this, his patrons-ladies and gentlemen of elevated status-would regularly call on him (in the hope she would be impressed). This last remark seemed to have the desired effect. No sooner had he let slip the names of some of his patrons-Herbert Bentnick; the earl of Lampton; the countess of Marl-than Mrs. Quick softened, and summoned her daughter, Bridget, to bring him a cup of tea.

Bridget Quick was a large, comely girl with freckled skin, a bouncy bosom that strained at her corsets, and glossy auburn hair, which she usually wore braided and coiled beneath a linen cap. She had curtsied demurely at their introduction, rattling the teacups on their tray precariously as she did so. Joshua chivalrously a.s.sisted her, carrying a table and placing the tray on it. He remarked as he did so to Mrs. Quick that should he be fortunate enough to be offered the lodgings, her daughter's charms would surely draw his clients as much as his pictures. He noticed Mrs. Quick's proprietorial eye on her daughter; he saw, too, the animated sparkle in Bridget's jade green eyes. Mrs. Quick had instructed her daughter to pour them all a second cup and offered Joshua the rooms at the very favorable rent of twenty guineas a year.

SINCE Joshua's arrival, the household had been arranged as follows: Mrs. Quick and Bridget occupied the ground floor rooms; the maid, Kitty, and a manservant, Thomas, a lad of sixteen, had rooms in the bas.e.m.e.nt, adjacent to the kitchen and coal cellar; Joshua resided on the first and second floors. His parlor was a sunny, south-facing room, furnished with a writing desk and two armchairs, a dining table, a looking gla.s.s, a table clock, and an Indian rug. The walls were sound enough to display his work and he had hung a selection of his finished portraits that had yet to be varnished and despatched. Double doors led through to a painting room, facing north, which was full of his easels, canva.s.ses, pigments, brushes, pencils, bottles of linseed, varnish, and spirit. Upstairs was his bedchamber and a closet.

Mrs. Quick, as Joshua soon discovered, was a woman of forceful character. Her reputation for ill temper made most people wary of her, although there were a few who claimed she was charitably disposed, despite her vociferous gripes. Thomas once told Joshua that Mrs. Quick had s.n.a.t.c.hed him at the age of ten from the clutches of a sweep who forced him to climb pitch black chimneys, dressed in rags and with no shoes, and fed him on sc.r.a.ps that you wouldn't give to a dog. Kitty had been taken on in the middle of winter when she was found out in the gutter, starving and half frozen to death. Thomas claimed that if anyone was in dire need they had only to knock on her kitchen window to be given a bowl of slops. Joshua nodded but privately took these tales with a hefty pinch of salt. He had yet to see a glimmer of charity in her, and rather found her as unyielding as a gatepost. She counted every candle stub and charged him extra for coal or a second helping of mutton broth. If the Sunday visitors disturbed her when she was feeling under the weather, which was often, she was never too ill to come upstairs to castigate him.

Changes in routine, particularly spontaneous ones, upset her profoundly. Thus, when Joshua reached the door of his lodgings that night, Mrs. Quick poked her head out, like a spider alerted to some unfortunate insect just caught in its web. She was dressed with characteristic severity, in a gray high-necked gown with a plain white collar. Her cheeks were hollow, and owing to an unfortunate lack of teeth, her mouth was tight, like a purse pulled in by a drawstring. Her hair was sc.r.a.ped into a large plain bonnet with long lappets, so that not a single wisp was visible. In a voice as harsh as a crow's, she declared herself most displeased by his sudden return. He might have had the manners to send word, in which case she would have instructed Kitty to light the fire in his room. He had n.o.body to blame but himself if the bed was damp and he caught his death.

Joshua looked a little sorrowful at this greeting, keenly aware how different it was from the one he would have received had Rachel and Benjamin been alive. He replied politely nonetheless. He hadn't known till late this afternoon of his return. As for catching a chill: the weather was clement, the month was late May, not February. She should not worry herself on his behalf, but if it was convenient and she could send Bridget up with a little supper on a tray, he would count himself most fortunate.

Bridget's manner toward him had warmed significantly in recent months. Occasionally when she looked at him meaningfully as he came and went, it was on the tip of his tongue to ask her how she was, or where she was going, or if she would care to sit for him. But then he remembered Mrs. Quick's irascible temper and how much he relied upon her favorable opinion. His rooms were pleasant, and after so much turmoil in recent months the thought of moving again was insupportable. Mrs. Quick saw him as the means of effecting useful introductions for her daughter. He had no wish to disabuse her.

Two hours later, filled with cold mutton and hot ale, he retired to his comfortable bed. He fell asleep still tingling at the pleasant memory of Meg, glad to be among his own possessions and familiar faces, and telling himself that the menace he had sensed at Astley was probably no more than the product of idle imaginings.

WHEN Joshua awoke the next morning his resolve to pursue the matter of Cobb's death was fully restored. He rose early and dressed with customary care in a buff wool coat with chocolate-colored braid, brown breeches, and a black silk cravat. Having breakfasted modestly on rolls and marmalade without allowing himself to be distracted by Bridget, who lingered by the parlor door, he strode out in the direction of Gray's Inn Lane.

He was going to find Mr. h.o.a.re, the attorney who had called on John Cobb at Richmond. He recalled that Lizzie Manning had suggested this visit, soon after the idea had occurred to him. She had promised to discover what she could from Violet's maid, and he wondered if she had been as good as her word.