“None, I’m afraid. I had lunch with our Virginia friend today, and he convinced me not to allow our other friend to release the contents of the package. When I got home, he was gone. He has no home, now, after the fire, and the only other person I could think of that he might go to was his ex-wife, but I understand she died several months ago.”

“What do you think he will do with the package?”

“He’s had a lecture, in my presence, from our Virginia friend on the irresponsibility of circulating it.”

“Unfortunately, there are many media organs who don’t share the responsible view.”

“Perhaps it might be time for you to reveal the contents of the package. If you use the period between now and the big event to explain things, the stories might peter out by that time.”

“That would be very risky.”

“Speak with your lady about it.”

“She knows nothing of this business, and I don’t feel it’s the right time to tell her.”

“When would the right time be?”

“On my deathbed, or perhaps much later.”

“Are you coming up here soon?”

“Possibly. I’ll give you a call, and we’ll get together.”

“I’d like that.”

“Goodbye.” He hung up.

—

ED RAWLS GOT off the train and, towing his new Brooks Brothers rolling bag with the strong case strapped to it, found the street and got into a taxi. After a brief negotiation with the driver over the long ride, he settled into the rear seat with the Washington Post and read until, over an hour later, they arrived.

The house was shuttered, but neat. The lawn service had taken care of the grass and plants. Ed left the real estate sign where it was, then let himself in and locked the door behind him. The house had been built in 1774 and rebuilt several times since, and it made little creaking noises as he walked up the stairs. His late ex-wife’s clothes and personal items had been removed by the people he had hired, so he put his luggage in a cupboard in his old dressing room. He tried a lamp, and it worked; the phone did not, but he had half a dozen throwaway cell phones in a shopping bag.