Inwardly, Marcus smiled. Because in the course of sixty seconds, he had learned more about Evelyn Ross than the studio’s investigators had learned in three weeks. The young lady sitting before him was no native of New York. The ease of manner, the disarming smile, the glimmer in the eye were all indigenous to that tribe of women who dwell from the shores of the Great Lakes to the port of New Orleans. Over the course of two hundred years, these farm-bred charms had evolved to provide the rest of us some consolation when losing the upper hand in horse-trading, card-play, and courtship.

If an engagement had been broken back in New York, Marcus thought to himself, then Evelyn Ross was the one who had done the breaking.

She pointed to the seven stacks of paper.

—Do you buy that stuff by the pound?

—You jest, Miss Ross. But my father ran a feed store in Arkansas. I spent my summers selling all manner of things by the pound; not to mention by the bushel and the peck.

—That must have made you quite hardy.

—It made me very good at estimating weights.

—Really, she said with a playful squint. Then how heavy am I?

—That’s not the sort of question a gentleman should answer.

—I’m not the type to take offense.

He tilted his head.

—105 pounds . . . ?

—Not bad! You’re only off by two.

—Was I heavy or light?

—Now, that’s going a step too far.

Oh, Marcus could see why a young banker in Manhattan might have made a rushed proposal; and he could see why it wouldn’t stick. He even felt a touch of pity for the poor bastard. But it did make one wonder: If the young man was the jilted party, then why had Miss Ross left New York?

She swung her foot up and down, waiting for him to speak.

—I appreciate your coming on such short notice, he began. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.

—Not at all.

—I’m glad to hear it. The reason we asked you to stop by is very straightforward. In essence, we want to thank you. We know that you and Miss de Havilland have become good friends; but it has also been brought to our attention that back in January you helped her out of quite a fix . . .

—What are friends for, she said.

—Precisely, Miss Ross. What are friends for? Miss de Havilland is a wonderful young woman with a bright future. But as you’ve seen firsthand, there are those who would seek to profit from her slightest misstep. So, we would deem it a terrific favor if you would continue to keep an eye out for her.

—Who is this we you keep mentioning, Mr. Benton? Is there someone hiding with you back there—behind all those stacks of paper?