“No strong reason. Instinct, mainly. And what Mitchell said too. There seems to be a pattern to this Star’s behavior. The French girl last winter; she was replaced by Anneke; now Mina. He takes them over, and he holds on to them. For a while. He likes young girls—and Mina looks much younger than her age apparently. According to Charlotte, she looks about twelve.”

“Go on.”

“He seems to be drawn to girls from affluent backgrounds. From apparently happy homes. Then there’s nationality—the girl he cut with a razor was French; Anneke was Dutch; Mina’s American. Maybe he likes uprooting people from their homes and families. Maybe it gives him a sense of power.”

“That’s interesting. And?”

“And it made me wonder just how far away he’d take Mina. After all, they had that ten-hour start.”

“I know. They left at midnight, in a fast car. It’s two to three hours at most from here to the Channel ports. They could have taken the tunnel, or a ferry or a hovercraft. Max is checking the schedules. There’re certainly early morning departures. They could have been across the Channel, in France, by dawn.”

“And then they could go anywhere. Amsterdam, for instance.”

“Precisely. Or Belgium or Italy or France or Germany. On the other hand, they might never have left England at all.”

Gini shivered. She drew her coat more tightly around her. “He’s dangerous,” she said. “It makes me very afraid for Mina.”

“He’s certainly dangerous,” Rowland said in a grim way. “And what he peddles is dangerous as well.”

There was a silence. Rowland downshifted, then went up through the gears. Eventually he said in an abrupt way:

“Look. I owe you an apology. When Max and I got back to the house this morning… What I said about being uncharitable. It was rude. I’m sorry I spoke in that way.”

“I’m glad you spoke in that way. You shouldn’t apologize. You were right. If you were harsh, it was deserved.” She paused. “In fact, if anyone should apologize, it’s I. I’m ashamed of the way I spoke. I’m ashamed of the way I’ve been behaving. That’s not relevant to you—but I’d like you to know.”

She made this admission with obvious difficulty in a quiet voice. Having made it, she relapsed into silence. Rowland, who was beginning to find her reserve unnerving, steeled himself.

“I also wanted to say,” he began stiffly, “that I know your work. I’ve always admired it, and the pieces you wrote from Sarajevo were very fine.”

“Thank you.” She made a small flinching movement. “I—I don’t talk about Sarajevo. I’ve made that a rule.”

“Can’t you take praise?” Rowland replied somewhat sharply.

She turned and gave him one long, steady look, then turned away. “No,” she said quietly. “Not on that subject. I would never feel the praise was deserved.”

“Why not?”

Rowland glanced at her again; she did not immediately reply. He had wondered—uncharitably, he thought—if she might have been fishing for further compliments. Then he caught the glitter of tears in her eyes and knew the suspicion was a cheap one.