“It’s the same dress,” Rowland said almost at once. “Same dress. Same jacket. They’re identical.”

“Indeed they are,” Lindsay said on a note of quiet triumph. “And that’s odd. Very odd indeed. Almost inexplicable.”

“Why? I don’t understand. Explain.”

“Because the first dress I showed you was made in 1976. And this one here was made exactly ten years earlier. The 1976 dress is a Cazarès—that’s indisputable. This 1966 dress, though identical, as you say, was made by an unknown girl, an amateur seamstress, whose name was Marie-Thérèse.”

She had Rowland’s full attention now. She watched him take in the implications of this. She watched him begin to seek an explanation.

“It becomes stranger, Rowland,” she went on. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if perhaps Maria Cazarès and this Marie-Thérèse could be one and the same? You’re wondering if this 1966 dress could date from her unknown period, pre-Lazare, pre-fame, when she was allegedly working away in that freezing atelier the PR people love to describe.”

“You’re right. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Then think again. Because this dress wasn’t made in a freezing atelier. It wasn’t even made in Paris. It was made in America.”

“America?”

“Yes, Rowland. In New Orleans.”

“Shall I go on, Rowland?” Lindsay said hesitantly a short while later. Ten minutes had passed, during which her account had been interrupted by a reaction on Rowland’s part that she did not understand. He was now standing with his back to her, having risen to put another log on the fire. He appeared to have forgotten that she was there, and was standing staring down into the flames.

“I’d like you to hear the story as I was told it,” she continued. “It’s a good story—at least I like it. It’s a love story of a kind.”

“Of course.” Rowland turned. “I want to hear it.”

“Is something wrong, Rowland?”

“No, no. It’s just—when you asked if I knew that city. I was remembering the last time I was there, that’s all.”

“Did you know it well? Was this when you were working in the States?”

“Fairly well. I went there a few times. I had a friend in Washington.” He hesitated. “Her brother was a lecturer in law at Tulane. We went there to visit him a few times.”

“Tulane?”

“It’s the university in New Orleans. It has one of the best law faculties in America. Never mind. That’s hardly relevant. Go on.”

As he spoke, he returned to the table and sat down. Lindsay, who had no intention of questioning him further, could not tell whether his memories of this place were happy or unhappy; perhaps both, she decided. Just for an instant she had glimpsed a very different Rowland McGuire from the one she thought she was beginning to know. She sensed he had no wish to reveal this aspect of himself, and was angered by his own brief lack of control. He picked up the bottle, and when Lindsay shook her head, poured some whiskey into his own glass. He lifted the liquid against the light, examined it, and then turned back to her with an attempt at his usual manner.