“Morning, Stone,” the man said. “I was going to ring the front bell, but…”

“Morning,” Stone said. “What brings you around to see me?”

“Oh, just a social call,” Jim Forrester said. “Got a few minutes?”

“Sure.” Stone dragged two lawn chairs over, made a pass at dusting them, and sat down. “Take a pew.”

The two men sat, ten feet from the street. Forrester seemed a little annoyed at not being asked into the house. “How about some coffee?” he said.

“Sorry, coffee’s off the menu,” Stone replied. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I was just passing by.”

“Were you? Say, whatever happened to your New Yorker piece? I haven’t seen it.”

“Oh, they take a long time to edit anything, you know. My editor…”

“That would be Charles McGrath?”

“Right.”

“Chip McGrath left The New Yorker a couple of years ago to become editor of the New York Times Book Review.”

“Ah, right; I’m working with another editor now. Say, what do you hear from Allison?”

“You must think I’m a medium,” Stone said, expressionless.

“I inquired about the disposition of the body at Government House. They didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. I began to think that Allison might not be dead after all.”

“The police told me that their policy was to cremate the body and scatter the ashes at sea,” Stone said. That was certainly what they had told him. “By the way, have you been to any alumni reunions lately?”

Forrester looked at him, puzzled. “No, not for years. Why do you ask?”

“I did a little checking upstate. There was no James Forrester at Syracuse, not since the class of ’38, and I think that was a little before your time.”

“Must be some mistake,” Forrester said.

“No, but there was a Paul Manning, at Cornell, of course.”

“Yes, that’s where Paul went. Why were you checking on me at Syracuse?”

“When I’ve been had, I like to know why and by whom.”

“Had?”

“Manning did play basketball for his fraternity, as you said he did. In fact, I’ve got a copy of the yearbook for his senior year, and there’s a very good photograph of him in it. He looks very different—thinner and no beard. Would you like to see it?”

Forrester looked at his nails. “It doesn’t interest me,” he said.

“I guess not,” Stone agreed. “Tell me, where are you living these days?”

“I’ve been living here in the city, but I think I’m going to do some traveling now.”

“I’m not surprised,” Stone replied.

Alma walked into the garage from the house. “Oh, there you are. Bill Eggers is on the phone; he wants to know if you want to have lunch.”