At four in the morning some pole in his mind had steadied him, and he had finally, briefly, slept. Now the compass of his mind oscillated violently. North, south, east, west: he rewrote those hours spent alone, plotted them one way, then another. One moment he felt absolutely certain that his final route, and Gini’s, must take a certain course; the next, distrusting instinct, he lost faith.

He moved back to the telephone, picked up a notebook, examined a fax sent by his stringer from New Orleans overnight, which seemed to confirm that as far as work was concerned, anyway, his intuition could be relied upon. He thought of telephoning his source in Amsterdam, Sandra Lucas, who had been Esther’s closest friend and a good friend to him when he’d needed one, in another country, in another life. When Esther was suddenly gone and he was alone. He began to dial the code for the Netherlands; he replaced the receiver. He dialed the first digit of the extension to Gini’s room, and someone began banging at the door to his suite. He swung around at once, certain Gini had come back.

When he opened the door with Gini’s name on his lips, Lindsay saw disappointment tighten his face. She forced herself to ignore it. She was in a state of nervous agitation anyway, partly because of the fax she now held in her hand, partly because she was anxious not to be late for the Cazarès show, and partly because, despite all her resolve, she still found it difficult to be unaffected by encounters with Rowland McGuire.

She came into the room fast, looking at her watch and waving the fax at him. She explained the necessary details very quickly. It was probably of no use to him anyway, but for what it was worth, she now knew the surname of Marie-Thérèse, and her brother, Jean-Paul.

“All couture clothes are labeled, Rowland,” she said. “Just like other clothes—though the labels are more prestigious, of course. Marie-Thérèse had handled couture clothes. She respected them. She learned from their every little detail. I just knew that when she made that dress for Letitia, she’d label it. It was the first real dress she ever made. I knew she’d want to sign it. Somewhere on that dress—if I could find the dress, if the dress still existed—I’d find her signature, her name. And I have. The curator at the Metropolitan checked for me. The dress was there: Letitia had stipulated it be kept. And there was a label—with the name hand embroidered. Here’s the name, Rowland—on this fax.”

Rowland had read, and was now rereading the fax. She saw him frown, then shake his head.

“What’s the matter, Rowland?” She hesitated. “I have to go. I’ll be late for Cazarès… Does the name mean something to you?”

“That was very clever. Thank you, Lindsay.” He gave a half-smile. “In a hundred years, I’d never have thought of that…”

“Well, you’re a man. And not the kind of man who’s very interested in labels on clothes.” She looked away; she wished Rowland had not smiled at her like that. It was too direct, too devoid of nuance. I am the invisible woman, Lindsay thought, and with more excuses about time, and Markov, she left.