“I suppose I can do that,” she said ungraciously. I suspected she was wanting a fee for holding my mail.

“I’d be most grateful,” I forced myself to say.

“Old cow,” I muttered as I walked out again. For all I knew a letter had come from Daniel and she had destroyed it. Well, there was nothing I could do about it. He’d get my letter with my new address soon and all would be well. I started up the street, then turned to my right following the narrow road as it curved up to the summit of the hill. I was out of breath by the time I came out to the gardens and open areas at the top and Paris lay before me, the Seine sparkling today in bright afternoon sunlight. The sound of stonemasons working on the nearby church echoed in the still air. It would have been pleasant to have sat for a while on a convenient wall and just enjoyed the sunshine and the view, but I forced myself to get down to business.

A man was walking past with a laden donkey. I asked him if he knew where some Russian refugee girls might be living. He shook his head and if my limited French was correct he muttered that refugees should stay where they were, with several cuss words thrown in. The clip-clop of his donkey’s hoofs on the cobblestones died away and there was nobody else around to ask. I decided that the logical place to go would be Le Bateau-Lavoir. Maxim Noah had painted Josette, after all. He or one of his fellow artists would know where she might be found. I followed the street around until I came to the rickety old building, perched precariously on the steep hillside. The door was open and I let myself in. This building too lay in afternoon slumber. Not a single sound anywhere. I tapped cautiously on Maxim’s door. There was no answer. I tapped again. “Hello,” I called. “Is anybody home? It’s Mrs. Sullivan from America. The friend of your cousin, Maxim.”

The door opened slowly and I found myself staring not at Maxim Noah but at a face I recognized as Josette herself. In the flesh she looked even younger and more vulnerable, bleary eyed as if just woken from sleep. “Maxim not here,” she said in hesitant French.

“Oh, that’s a pity,” I replied. “Are you Josette?”

She looked wary. “Who told you?”

I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I saw your painting when I was visiting Reynold Bryce,” I said and noted her startled reaction. “I had a message to give him from a relative in America. This relative wanted to buy one of his paintings. He showed me the painting he was working on. The lovely painting of you, ma petite.”

“Reynold Bryce is dead,” she said flatly.