I saw Madeleine waving from her upstairs window, her baby in her arms. The Nouvelle Athènes was crowded with people as we passed. I wondered if my artist friends were still there and when they ever did any work. I wondered if the morose Monsieur Degas was sitting alone, sipping his absinthe. I realized I’d be sad to leave this lively neighborhood and go to a more sedate part of town. Perhaps there would be a time when Sid’s name had been cleared that we could move back here again. I toyed with those words. So easy to say and yet I had no idea how I would ever manage to save her. If it was indeed a young Jew who had killed Bryce, then the police might be able to find the culprit through interrogation and intimidation at the local synagogues. If it was someone else, then I didn’t see how I could possibly find out who that might be. It seemed I had no way of infiltrating Bryce’s inner circle, since I was not admitted to the American Club and could hardly call upon the ambassador. Tomorrow I’d try to talk to the housekeeper and see if she’d let me take a look at Mr. Bryce’s rooms, but I didn’t even know if the housekeeper would still be in residence or if the police would still be stationed outside. I let out a big sigh. I had been through days of sickness and worry. I was tired. I wanted a rest, not a mammoth task.

Paris was at its liveliest as we moved away from Montmartre. Streets were full of evening commerce. A church bell was tolling for a six o’clock service while people stopped for a glass of wine at the outdoor cafés. I heard snatches of song from inside bars and cabarets. It seemed that everyone was having a good time, glad to be alive on a warm June evening. We passed the Saint-Lazare station where I had first arrived, so full of excitement and hope, then crossed the wide Boulevard Haussmann with its fine stores and elegant women. I looked longingly at those enticing shop windows. What fun it would be to have the money and leisure to go shopping here, like two young American women we passed, their arms full of packages.

“We can’t go back to the hotel before we visit Worth,” they called to two older women ahead of them.

Then we crossed the Champs-Élyseés with its fine carriages and dangerously fast automobiles and came at last to the Rue de Marignan. Celeste opened the door to me with such a strange, disapproving look on her face that I wondered whether she had been against her mistress inviting me to stay. “Ah, you have returned with all your belongings,” she said loudly. “You do not travel lightly, madame.”