“I'm sorry,” he said with a sincerity which surprised him. “I was not looking where I was going. I beg your pardon, ma'am.”

She smiled with what seemed genuine amusement.

“You were a little preoccupied with your thoughts, sir. I hope they were not as gloomy as they seemed.” Her voice was rich and a little husky. “I'm afraid they were.” Why on earth had he said that? He should have been cautious instead of so frank. Was it too late to retreat? “I was on an unpleasant errand,” he added, by way of explanation.

“I'm sorry.” Her face filled with concern. “I hope at least you can now say it is concluded.”

It was mid-afternoon. He could not abandon the chase for the day, although he was enjoying it less and less. There were certainly gaps in Angus Stonefield's life, whether he was as blameless as his wife believed or not.

Some of them might have been accounted for by visits to Caleb, but were they all? “Not concluded,” he replied unhappily. “Simply come to another blind alley.”

She did not move. She made a delightful picture standing on the steps in the winter sun. Her hair was the color of warm honey, and thickly coiled.

It looked as if it would be soft to the touch and he imagined it would smell sweet, perhaps faintly of flowers, or musk. Her eyes were wide and hazel-brown, her nose straight and strong enough to speak of character, her mouth full-lipped.

A stout gentleman with a rubicund face came down the steps and tipped his hat to her. She smiled back, then turned to Monk again.

“You are seeking something?” she asked with quick perception.

He might as well tell her the truth.

“Did you ever meet a man named Angus Stonefield?”

Her winged eyebrows rose. “Here? Is he a member?”

He changed his mind rapidly. “I believe so.”

“What was he like?” she countered.

“About my height, dark hair, green eyes.” He was about to add that he was probably well dressed and sober of temperament, then he realized that possibly he was denying himself an entire avenue of exploration. Instead he fished in his pocket and brought out Enid Ravensbrook's drawing and passed it to her.

She accepted it with a slender hand, delicately gloved, and inspected it with considerable thought.

“What an interesting face,” she said at last, looking up at Monk. “Why do you want to know? Or is that a tactless question?”

“He has been absent from his home, and his family are concerned,” he said noncommittally. “Have you seen him?” He found himself hoping that she had, not only for his investigation but because it would allow him further time in her company.

“I am not sure,” she said slowly. “There is something familiar about him, but I cannot think from where. Isn't it odd how one can think one knows a face but cannot tell from where? Do you have that happen to you? I am sorry to be so vague. I promise I will search my memory, Mr . ...