They were both posted in Paris. I let out a sigh of disappointment. And this latest one had been mailed the day I arrived. So that was one day before the postcard of the tea-drinking woman. Someone was sending me one postcard per day. Surely that was significant? Then I turned them over and examined the paintings. Both in the Impressionist style, most attractive. I wondered for a moment whether they had been painted by Reynold Bryce, since I knew he had specialized in painting children once upon a time. But his angelic child had been more idealized and sentimental than this—a true painting of the Victorian era. This painting of mother and child was real and alive. Were they both by the same person? I studied the signature but it was too small to read.

Tomorrow I would show the postcards to the artists I had met, both at the Nouvelle Athènes and across the Seine in Montparnasse. One of them must surely recognize the painter. And if they did, then what? I asked myself. What would that tell me? All I could say was that someone was sending me pretty pictures. They were nothing like Gus’s paintings, so I couldn’t take it as a sign that they were from her. And they were sent from someone who didn’t even know my name.

I played with Liam, trying to be the bright and cheerful mother he deserved, but it was hard when my head was so full of worry. I’d have to go to the police. To Inspector Henri. Then to the hospitals and morgues as planned. And if nothing turned up, I’d have to do the inevitable and write to Daniel asking him to book me a passage home before my money ran out even if that meant putting myself and my child back in danger. We ate, bathed, and fell asleep. I hoped for some kind of instructive dream, but I was so tired that I don’t remember dreaming at all. Next morning I awoke early, fed Liam, dressed, and waited impatiently to resume my quest. It wasn’t that I was looking forward to possible visits to a hospital or a morgue, or to the police, but I wasn’t good at sitting and doing nothing, and there was no point in visiting the cafés too early in the day. Artists did not seem to be early risers. And if I wanted to enlist the help of Miss Stein, then I knew she didn’t receive guests before luncheon.