Now she smiled broadly, the fear of the earthquake suddenly pushed aside. “That’s more than we had when we came to San Francisco twelve years ago.”

“A lot more,” Cromwell said comfortably. “Nineteen million more, to be exact.”

BELL MISSED Cromwell by twenty minutes when he reached the mansion on Cushman Street. He studied the house and was surprised at the superficial damage after witnessing the unbelievable destruction of the buildings in the main part of the city. He climbed over the mound of fallen bricks that had been an eight-foot wall and walked up the driveway to the front door.

He pulled the doorbell knob, stood back, and waited. After a long minute, the door cracked open and the housekeeper peered out at Bell. “What do you want?” she demanded, all formal courtesy lost from the lingering fright of the earthquake.

“I’m from the Van Dorn Detective Agency, here to see Mr. Cromwell.”

“Mr. Cromwell is not at home. He left soon after the awful earth shuddering.”

He could see a figure approach through the curtains covering the glass of the door.

“Do you know if he went to his bank?”

The housekeeper moved back as Margaret stepped onto the threshold. She stared at the man standing on the step in a suit covered with dust, grime, and soot. The face was blackened with ash, the eyes tired of seeing too much misery. She barely recognized him.

“Isaac, is that you?”

“A little worse for wear, I’m afraid. But, yes, it’s me.” He removed his hat. “Good to see you, Margaret. I’m happy you survived the quake without injury.”

Her dark eyes were wide and soft, as if she were seeing him for the first time.

She stood back from the door. “Please come in.”

He entered and saw that she had been working at cleaning up the mess littering the floors of the mansion, mostly broken china, porcelain figurines, and Tiffany lampshades. She wore a comfortable red cotton skirt and a woolen sweater under a long apron. Her hair was wrapped in a tight curl atop her head, with loose strands falling beside her cheeks. Despite her plain appearance, she filled the air around her with a sweet fragrance. Whether she wore an expensive silk gown or an ordinary work dress, Margaret was still a stunning woman.

She led him into the parlor and offered him a chair by the fireplace, whose ashes had fanned out over the carpet when the chimney collapsed. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I’d sell my soul for a cup of coffee.”

She turned to her housekeeper, who had overheard and simply nodded, then scurried off to the kitchen. Margaret found it difficult to gaze directly into Bell’s hypnotic eyes. She found herself with a growing lust that she had experienced earlier in his presence.

“What do you want with Jacob?” she demanded without preamble.

“I think you know the answer to that question,” he replied in a flat tone.