“How kind you are.” The old bat gave me one of those smiles that make nervous people want to hide under the nearest piece of furniture. “I fear we have already disposed of most of our treasures. But of course you are welcome to look. Let me give you the keys now.”

I accepted the keys, and with them my congé, as Emily Post might say. The exodus was a mass affair; the tea party had not been a social success. It was primarily my fault, and I was delighted to take the responsibility. But I wasn’t sure the good guys had come out ahead.

At least we had the keys to the library. I tossed them, jingling, as we went down the stairs. George patted me on the back.

“Nice work, Vicky. But you’re wasting your time.”

“Hush your mouth,” said Tony, with some vague idea that he was speaking a kind of code. Schmidt, who was ahead of me, turned to give us a bewildered look.

“You will inspect the library?” he asked.

“Yes. Why not?”

“Oh, of course, of course. I only meant to ask — I too am an antiquarian. An amateur, of course!”

“Of course,” I said. We had reached the corridor leading to our rooms, and I gave the little man a very hard stare. He beamed ingratiatingly.

“It would be a privilege to assist you,” he said.

“She has an assistant,” Tony said. “Me.”

“Then as a favor to an old man?”

I didn’t see how I could refuse without giving the whole business an aura of secrecy, which was the last thing I wanted. In the unlikely event that I found a useful clue, I believed myself capable of distracting Schmidt’s attention from it.

“Sure,” I said. “The more the merrier. How about you, George?”

“No, thanks. It’s not in the library. I’ve already looked.”

He ought to have been on the stage. He didn’t even look back as he walked off down the corridor, humming softly to himself.

“It?” said Schmidt, with a frown.

“Crazy American,” said Tony wildly. “You know how they are.”

“If he doesn’t,” I said, sighing, “he’s finding out now. Come on. Where is the blasted library, anyhow?”

It was on the same floor as the Great Hall, off a corridor to the south. When the door swung open, I couldn’t hold back a groan. The room had once been handsome. The fireplace was of marble, with stiff Gothic figures of saints supporting the mantel; there wasn’t a nose or chin left among the holy crew, and the stone was pitted, as if by acid. Tapestries covered the walls, but they were cobwebby masses of decay; behind them, small things scuttled and squeaked, disturbed by our entry. The bookshelves sagged; the books were crumbling piles of leather and paper.