Willie sighed. “That’s probably the most likely. Reynold was becoming more rabidly anti-Semitic by the minute. He said if they reinstated Dreyfus to his former rank he’d leave Paris and go home and if you knew what Reynold felt about home, that was indeed a rash statement. But what a stroke of bad luck for me. He had promised to put two of my paintings in his next exhibition.”

He came over to the table and gave me an inquiring look.

“A friend of yours, Willie,” Booth Tarkington said. “Asking after you. Came all the way from America to catch up with you. Did you leave a broken heart behind?”

Willie frowned as he stared at me. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

“No, you haven’t, Mr. Walcott,” I said hastily because I could feel all those eyes on me, “But I am a good friend of your cousin Augusta. In fact I came over to stay with them—at their invitation—only to find that they are not here. So I wondered if perhaps Gus had told you anything that might shed light on where they’ve gone.”

“Oh, so you’re the Irish girl.” He smiled at me now, such a devastating smile. “Yes Augusta did mention that they were expecting an Irish friend from New York. But you say they are not at their apartment?”

“No. I’ve been there two days and no sign of them, and no note.”

“That’s certainly strange.” He pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “Maybe they got fed up with the primitive conditions of Montmartre. That is where they moved to, isn’t it? ‘Wanting to be in the heart of the art world,’ so they said. As if Montmartre is any more the heart than Montparnasse is. I told them that but Augusta’s companion seemed to be rather opinionated and apparently some relative of hers is a painter there and she seemed to think he was the cat’s whisker when it came to the art world.”

“That’s right,” I said. “She discovered a long-lost cousin. Maxim Noah, wasn’t that his name?”

Willie Walcott shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell with me. Anyhow they wanted to be closer to what he called the Navel of Creativity.”

“They haven’t moved again,” I said. “They’ve left all their things.”

“Sorry, but I can’t help you,” he said. “The last time I saw them was a couple of weeks ago when I told them I’d set up a meeting with Reynold Bryce for them. They were very thrilled. I never did hear how it turned out because Reynold told me he was busy on a new painting and didn’t want to be disturbed.” And he made a strange face, looking for a moment like a petulant child.