The rest of us got to our feet, but Señora Linares’s attention was fixed on Cyrus. “Please,” she said, in a pleasantly toned voice what had obviously suffered through hours of weeping. “Do not stop. The song is lovely.”

Cyrus obliged but kept his playing soft. Mr. Moore stepped forward at that point, offering a hand. “Señora Linares-my name is John Schuyler Moore. I suspect that Miss Howard has informed you that I’m a reporter-”

“For The New York Times,”the woman answered from behind the veil as she shook Mr. Moore’s hand lightly. “I must tell you frankly, señor, that were you in the employ of any other newspaper in this city, such as those belonging to Pulitzer and Hearst, I should not have consented to this meeting. They have printed abominable lies about the conduct of my countrymen toward the rebels in Cuba.”

Mr. Moore eyed her carefully for a moment. “I fear that’s so, señora. But I also fear that at least some of what they’ve printed is true.” Señora Linares’s head bent forward just a little, and you could feel her sadness and shame even through the veil. “Fortunately, though,” Mr. Moore went on, “we’re not here to discuss politics, but the disappearance of your daughter. Assuming, that is, that we may be certain the two subjects are not connected?”

Miss Howard gave Mr. Moore a quick look of surprise and disapproval, and Señora Linares’s head snapped back up into a proud position. “I have given my word to Miss Howard-the facts are as I have represented them.”

Miss Howard shook her head. “Honestly, John, how can you-”

“My apologies,” he answered. “To you both. But you must admit that the coincidence is rather remarkable. War between our two countries is spoken of as commonly as the weather these days-and yet of all the children of all the diplomats in New York to mysteriously disappear, it’s the daughter of a high Spanish official.”