Then I read fifty pages of an early Eric Ambler novel, at which point I remembered how it ended. Then I picked up that morning’s copy of the London Times, which I had already read once, which is generally enough. I had a go at the bridge and chess columns and the garden news, and then I turned to the Personals. Halfway down the first column it occurred to me that I had a particular reason to check out the Personals, and halfway down the third column I found the reason.

IF YOU ARE female, under 40, unmarried, intelligent, adventurous, free to travel, opportunity awaits you! Do not mention this ad to others but reply in person at Penzance Export, No. 31, Pelham Court, Marylebone.

“Of course it’s Smythe-Carson again,” Nigel said the next morning. “Quite the same sort of message, isn’t it? He’s stopped mentioning the high pay and has-”

“And has abandoned Carradine in favor of Penzance,” Julia put in.

“And Smythe-Carson for something else, no doubt. And took new offices, but hasn’t left Marylebone. I don’t know just where Pelham Court is, Evan. Julia?”

I said, “I was there last night.”

“No one home, I don’t suppose?”

“No. The building was locked.” I had guessed it would be, but I found the ad around 3:30 and had four hours to kill before Nigel and Julia would get up, and there are times when pointless activity is preferable to inactivity.

“So whatever he was doing before-”

“He’s doing it again,” I said.

“I wonder what it is.”

I stood up. “Whatever it is, I’ll find out soon enough. And I’ll find out just what the hell happened to Phaedra, and-”

“How?”

I looked down at Julia. “Why, I’ll ask him, I suppose.”

“But don’t you suppose he’s bent?” I looked puzzled. “I’m sorry, you people say crooked, don’t you?”