“I’m sorry, madame, but I do not know,” he said. “Monsieur Bryce is a resident in our city. At the Ritz we only entertain visitors and tourists. Maybe one of my superiors might be able to assist you, but I think not.”

I was trying to keep calm although my frustration was mounting by the minute. “Then could you perhaps suggest where I might find out about him? Is there a place where Americans living in Paris meet?”

“There is the new American Club, madame,” he said. “I understand that all Americans of means and position are members there. Surely your Mr. Bryce would qualify.”

“The American Club? Of course.” I let out a sigh of relief. “And where is this club?”

“It’s in Passy, close to the Trocadéro.”

“I’m afraid that means nothing to me,” I said. “I’m newly arrived in the city.”

“I understand the club is actually situated on the Quai de Billy, beside the Seine.”

“Is it very far from here?” I was horribly conscious of a clock ticking away inside my head.

“Not too far, I think. You can go on foot. It is a pleasant walk. All you have to do is proceed to the Place de la Concorde, go down to the Seine, and then follow the quai until you come close to the Eiffel Tower. Maybe fifteen minutes. No more.”

Just then I heard a voice behind me speaking English and saying in imperious tones, “Where the devil have you been, Henrietta? You’ve kept us all waiting for hours. It’s just not on, you know.”

I turned around cautiously and went cold all over. Because I knew that voice. It belonged to Justin Hartley, the landowner’s son from Ireland, the man I thought I had killed when he was trying to rape me. He was standing at the foot of the marble staircase and looking up as Miss Henrietta, my former classmate at the big house, came down toward him.

“Pardon me, but I am feeling unwell,” I stammered and made for the nearest chair with its back to that staircase.

The young man was most solicitous. “Madame, is there something I can get you? A glass of water perhaps?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be all right in a minute.” I took out my handkerchief and held it up to my face.

If he came this way I was lost. I was sure he knew there was now a price on my head in Ireland, and nothing would please him more than turning me in. He had never forgiven me for the brain damage he suffered when he hit his head on our stove, and that his injuries had forced him to leave the army. He would like nothing better than to see me hanged.

“Stop being so impatient, Justin,” Henrietta’s voice carried across the wide foyer.

“But I hate to be kept waiting, you know that.”