At last I found it—an impressive white stone building with the obligatory wrought-iron balconies and, as M. Degas had remembered, a solid green front door. I knocked on this with some trepidation. It was opened cautiously by a maid, unmistakably French in a black dress and frilled white apron.

“Oui, Madame?” she asked.

“I have come to see Miss Cassatt,” I said. “My name is Sullivan. Madame Sullivan. I have just arrived in Paris and think she might know two friends of mine.”

“Please come in.” She opened the door wider so that I could step into a foyer. It had a white marble floor onto which I was now dripping. “You are American?”

“I am from Ireland, but I live in New York, where my friends also live. I am sorry to disturb Miss Cassatt so early in the day, but it is a matter of importance.” At least I hope that is what I was saying. I was feeling too cold, miserable, and depressed to be able to think clearly in a foreign tongue.

“Please wait here,” the maid said. “I will tell Mademoiselle Cassatt that you have arrived. And may I take your umbrella? The weather, it is most inclement, no?”

I agreed that it was. She went up a flight of stairs while I attempted to make myself look more respectable in the gilt-framed mirror. I looked up as the maid returned down the stairs. “Miss Cassatt will be happy to receive you,” she said. “Please follow me.”

We went up the flight of marble stairs and the maid pushed open double doors into a large room, decorated very much in the French style with brocade drapes at the windows and more brocade on curly white and gold chairs. A pleasant-looking woman who appeared to be in her forties rose from one of these chairs. “Mrs. Sullivan,” she said, holding out her hands to me. “Dear me, you really have been weathering the storm, in more ways than one, haven’t you.”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Miss Cassatt,” I said. “And I have no idea why I am here, but I received two postcards with copies of your paintings on them, and I wondered if they might have anything to do with the disappearance of my two friends, Miss Goldfarb and Miss Walcott. Are you acquainted with them? Can you tell me anything about what has happened to them?”

“I believe I can,” she said. “Won’t you sit down and take some coffee? I’ll ask Celeste to bring us some.”

“I’m afraid I’ll make your sofa rather wet,” I said.

She smiled. “No matter. Please sit.”