Stone sat in his Turtle Bay garden on a lovely early spring morning, breakfasting on eggs and bacon and orange juice. When he had finished, his Greek housekeeper, Helene, took away the plates and poured him a mug of the strong coffee he loved. He looked through the Times idly, checking for any mention of Allison. He had heard nothing from her, and when he had called the Greenwich house, the number had been disconnected. He had thought of calling her Connecticut lawyer, but had decided just to wait for Allison’s call.

Alma, his secretary, came out to the garden with the morning mail. “There’s one from the broker in Fort Lauderdale,” she said.

Stone opened that first and found a check for one million eight hundred thousand dollars and change. He smiled broadly.

“I take it we’re not broke for a while?” Alma asked.

“We certainly are not,” he said, endorsing the check and handing it to her.

Her eyes grew wide. “I had no idea it was worth so much.”

“The broker reckoned it had cost close to three million to build and equip. Still, after his commission, that’s a good price.”

“What shall I do with it?” Alma asked.

“Write a check for, let’s see”—he began scribbling numbers on his newspaper—“three hundred seventy-five thousand to that law firm in Palm Beach, for the account of Libby Manning’s mother. I want that off my conscience.”

“Right,” said Alma.

“Then send a check for five hundred and forty thousand to the Internal Revenue Service.” He groaned. “God, how proud I am to be an American and pay my taxes!”

“Right. That leaves eight hundred and eighty-five thousand.”

“Send my broker a check for two hundred thousand, and tell him to call me about where to invest it.”

“We’re rich!” Alma squealed. “What about the rest?”

“I was thinking about buying an airplane,” Stone said.

Alma’s face fell. “Oh. We’re not rich anymore. Well, it was fun while it lasted.” She got up and trudged comically back into the house.

Stone had a thought: he could afford a car now. He got up, went into the house, and walked through the kitchen into a storeroom, then through another door. This had been a garage at one time, and there was still a folding door to the street, though he hadn’t opened it for a long time. He waded through the stacked boxes and old lawn furniture to the door, which was made of heavy oak. He turned the lock, thinking, I’ll have to install an automatic garage door opener if I’m going to use this space. He tugged at the door, which moved six inches and stopped. He tugged again, and got it open three feet. Then, with all his strength, he moved the door up all the way, until it was standing wide open. He found himself face-to-face with a tall man.