reeked of perfume. Harry followed the disapprovingface down the hallway and into a large room, on theother side of which - across an oriental carpet that hadeverything woven into its pattern but the price - sat awidow. She didn't suit black; nor tears. She stood upand offered her hand.

'Mr D'Amour?'

'Yes.'

'Valentin will get you something to drink if you'dlike.'

'Please. Milk, if you have it.' His belly had beenjittering for the last hour; since her talk of WyckoffStreet, in fact.

Valentin retired from the room, not taking his beadyeyes off Harry until the last possible moment.

'Somebody died,' said Harry, once the man hadgone.

'That's right,' the widow said, sitting down again.At her invitation he sat opposite her, amongst enoughcushions to furnish a harem. 'My husband.'

Tm sorry.'

'There's no time to be sorry,' she said, her every lookand gesture betraying her words. He was glad of hergrief; the tearstains and the fatigue blemished a beautywhich, had he seen it unimpaired, might have renderedhim dumb with admiration.

'They say that my husband's death was an accident,'she was saying. 'I know it wasn't.'

'May I ask ... your name?'

'I'm sorry. My name is Swann, Mr D'Amour.Dorothea Swann. You may have heard of my husband?'

The magician?'

'Illusionist,' she said.

'I read about it. Tragic.'

'Did you ever see his performance?'

Harry shook his head. 'I can't afford Broadway, MrsSwann.'

'We were only over for three months, while his showran. We were going back in September ...'

'Back?'

'To Hamburg,' she said, 'I don't like this city. It's toohot. And too cruel.'

'Don't blame New York,' he said. 'It can't helpitself.'

'Maybe,' she replied, nodding. 'Perhaps what hap-pened to Swann would have happened anyway, wherever