'OK. I'm sorry.'

'What's to be sorry for?' Valentin wanted to know.'Swann's dead. It's all over, bar the shouting.'

The doleful face stoically refused tears. A stone wouldweep sooner, Harry guessed. But there was grief there,and all the more acute for being dumb.

'One question.'

'Only one?'

'Why didn't you want me to read his letter?'

Valentin raised his eyebrows slightly; they were fineenough to have been pencilled on. 'He wasn't insane,'he said. 'I didn't want you thinking he was a crazy man,because of what he wrote. What you read you keep toyourself. Swann was a legend. I don't want his memorybesmirched.'

'You should write a book,' Harry said. 'Tell the wholestory once and for all. You were with him a long time, Ihear.'

'Oh yes,' said Valentin. 'Long enough to know betterthan to tell the truth.'

So saying he made an exit, leaving the flowers to wilt,and Harry with more puzzles on his hands than he'dbegun with.

Twenty minutes later, Valentin brought up a tray offood: a large salad, bread, wine, and the steak. It wasone degree short of charcoal.

'Just the way I like it,' Harry said, and set toguzzling.

He didn't see Dorothea Swann, though God knowshe thought about her often enough. Every time heheard a whisper on the stairs, or footsteps along thecarpetted landing, he hoped her face would appear atthe door, an invitation on her lips. Not perhaps themost appropriate of thoughts, given the proximity ofher husband's corpse, but what would the illusionist carenow? He was dead and gone. If he had any generosity ofspirit he wouldn't want to see his widow drown in hergrief.

Harry drank the half-carafe of wine Valentin hadbrought, and when - three-quarters of an hour later -the man re-appeared with coffee and Calvados, he toldhim to leave the bottle.