With the part of his mind and vision that was ever alert to the sector of land leading to the glade, he saw a woman’s figure going along the edge of a field, and knew it was Sarah Kendrick. Sarah Kendrick, alone. He’d heard at the post office that the artist had taken the train to Savannah. As he watched, she turned into the woods. She was going to the place he had seen her with the artist, where another time he had seen Roman with the Oaks tutor.

Not consciously deciding to do so, he set off to follow her. He used caution only as he came near the glade, meaning no more than to see what the woman was up to. Maybe the man he’d seen her with had not gone away but had merely gone to stay with another family nearby, and they’d made an arrangement to meet here today.

It took him five minutes to steal the last hundred feet into a position that gave him a clear view of the glade. Sarah would not have heard him if he had moved without stealth, because she was not expecting anyone. His cunning served no purpose other than to quicken the tension in him to trigger sharpness. As he turned aside the last leafy branch to reveal the glade, he was in the near darkness of the trees, and she was in shadow deep enough for him to have to narrow his eyes to find and read her face.

She leaned against the big rock just as she had that day the artist stood a little away from her making rapid sketches. She had been thoughtful then; now her eyes were closed, and a smile curved her lips.

He studied her and waited, but nothing happened; no one came. Gradually, he realized that she was not expecting the man. She had returned there simply to do what she was doing. He bent to the ground, found a small chip of slate, and threw it so that it dropped near her feet, hitting the side of the big rock. She did not open her eyes, and she surely would have done so if she had been expecting anyone. He let a long minute go by, and then he found a dry pine cone on the ground near him and tossed that. It hit her shoes and bounced away from her.