The lobby was full of journalists. Seeing some Englishmen he knew, Rowland disappeared into their group. He listened attentively, then spoke, his voice quiet, his manner confidential.

“What were you doing back there?” Gini asked as he joined her in the cab outside.

“Obtaining information. Spreading misinformation. Reverting to type.” He smiled. “What’s the first rule of journalism, Gini?”

“Oh, I know that. My father told me often enough. It’s the one you forgot earlier. Check—then double-check.”

“That’s the second rule.” Rowland gave her a sharp glance. “We both forgot the first rule.”

“Which is?”

“Always be ahead of the pack.”

The rue St. Séverin was tiny and very narrow. It was dominated by its church. The church’s gargoyles reared up across the sidewalk, almost touching the buildings opposite. Facing the church was a stretch of Algerian and Moroccan restaurants, advertising couscous and kebabs. As the clock in the tower above them struck, Star drew Mina into the dark doorway of the church.

“It’s eleven-thirty,” he said. “Wait here, and don’t move. I’ll be ten minutes, fifteen at most.”

“Can’t I come in with you, Star?”

“No. You can’t. Keep your scarf on. Stand out of the light.” He grasped her hands and fixed her with his beautiful eyes. “I need you, Mina. You promise me you’ll wait?”

He crossed the narrow street and disappeared into a doorway between the restaurants opposite. Mina stared at the building he had entered. It looked as if there might be small apartments above the restaurants; the windows were less than fifteen feet from where she stood. They were lit but not curtained; she could see the flickers of a television set, the shadow of a moving figure, nothing else.

Cautiously, she looked along the street. The restaurants would have phone booths, she thought. If she were quick, if Star was really away fifteen minutes, she could try to call England. She had no money, but she could call collect, though she wasn’t sure how to do that from France. She took a step forward, then her nerve failed her. No. Star was sure to come back, sure to catch her; better wait.

She looked at her watch. He had been gone only a couple of minutes. He had been promising her, all day yesterday, all day today, that he would let her make the call, and then, when it came to the point, something else would intervene. He would say no, he had to wait for a friend, or they had to go out and meet someone, but he would never explain whom they were seeing or why. Whom was he seeing now, for instance? Whom had he been seeing this afternoon? Some horrible, shuffling, muttering old woman dressed in black who lived in this huge, horrible, musty apartment, full of knickknacks and crucifixes, and horrible gaudy pictures of Christ.

Mina had had to sit in a corner while Star and this old woman muttered to each other in French, and while the old woman kept stroking Star’s hand and fawning over him as if he were some kind of god. The old woman kept talking about Maria: it was the only word Mina understood—Maria this, Maria that. Star had given Mina some grass to smoke before they left for the old woman’s apartment, and it had been powerful, but it hadn’t given her a lift. It had made her feel sick, and trapped, going round and round like some squirrel in a cage, so her thoughts wouldn’t fix. When they got to the old woman’s apartment, it was airless and hot, and Star had sat her down right next to a radiator, which made her feel worse.