The ground floor, except for the garage, had been a dentist’s office when Stone’s great-aunt had still owned the house. After Stone inherited the place and renovated it, mostly with the sweat of his own brow, he turned the dentist’s office into his own. His secretary, Joan Robertson, worked at the front of the house, then came a couple of small rooms for supplies and the copying machine, then his own office, a pleasant room at the back of the house, looking out into the gardens of Turtle Bay, a collection of town houses in the East Forties that opened onto a common garden. Only the burglar bars spoiled the view.

Stone heard the clicking of computer keys stop, and Joan came back to his office. “You’re in early,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Stone asked, with mock offense. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

“That’s what I mean. I’ll bet you didn’t have time for breakfast.”

“You got some coffee on?”

“I’ll get you a cup,” she said.

“There’s some guy named John Bartholomew coming in at nine,” he said. “Bill Eggers sent him.”

“I’ll show him in when he arrives,” she said.

Stone shuffled listlessly through the files on his desktop. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Eggers that he wasn’t busy.

Joan came back with the coffee. He was grateful that her taste in beans ran with his, that she liked the strong, dark stuff that usually got made into espresso. “Did Callie get in last night?” she asked.

“She got in, then she got out.”

“Out? You mean, out?”

“I do. She’s marrying Thad Shames this weekend.”

“Good God! I’m shocked!”

“So was I, to tell the truth.”

“You let another one get away.”

“Joan . . .”

She threw her hands up defensively. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. You want me to send a wedding gift?”

Stone brightened. “Good idea. Go find the ugliest piece of sterling that Tiffany makes and send it to them in Palm Beach with a truly sincere card.”

The doorbell rang. “There’s your appointment,” she said. She left and returned a moment later with a tall, heavyset man in his fifties who, in his youth, had probably played college football.

“I’m Stone Barrington,” Stone said, rising and offering his hand.

“John Bartholomew,” the man replied, shaking it.

Stone waved him to a chair. “Bill Eggers called last night.”

“Did he give you any details?”

“No.”

Joan brought in another cup of coffee on a silver tray and offered it to Bartholomew, who had, apparently, placed his order with her on arrival.

Bartholomew sipped it. “Damned fine coffee,” he said.

There was something vaguely British about him, Stone thought, perhaps more than just the hand-tailored suit. “Thank you. We drink it strong around here.”