Melissa Staunton's box in the loge of the Monte Carlo opera was one of the most sumptuous there. Others nearby were reserved for local and visiting royalty, which included kings, queens, nephews, et cetera. Expensive purple velvet curtains graced the front of these booth-like areas. Inside were plush, comfortable easy chairs, gleaming bronze railings, and small lamps on the carpeted floors.

Each booth or private box in the loge overlooking the famous stage had its own private entrance, a door made of hardwood with bronze fittings. On each door was an engraved plate reporting the owner's name. The doors were heavy; their great weight insured their silence if they were opened or closed while a performance on the stage was taking place.

On Stephenson's first night in Monaco, he was bored to death as he watched a performance of an obscure Puccini opera. Below in the audience he could see people he recognized from their photographs in newspapers and magazines. Seated next to him was Melissa Staunton, also observing the crowd, listening politely to the opera, frowning from time to time when the mezzo-soprano struck a bum note, and clapping merrily at some comic antic on stage.

"Are you enjoying the performance, Stephenson?"

He wished he had the strength to tell her that among the many things he disliked about life and living was his name, Stephenson.