By the end of the meal, he couldn't have said precisely where his wife had been the night before or recalled the peculiar names of the dances she had assayed, but two things were clear: She had eaten enough for the moment and, although she had not expected to do so when she'd left the hotel the night before, she had in truth enjoyed the company of Flo Greenfield. Holmes commented on the latter fact.

Russell looked mildly surprised. “Yes, I suppose so. She's not exactly my sort, and hasn't much of an interest in anything but fashion and decorating, but she does have a brain beneath the flutter. Sooner or later she's going to get tired of night-clubs and hang-overs, and when she does, I have a feeling she'll make something of herself. Are you asking for a reason?”

Holmes was not altogether pleased to see the evidence of Russell's quick common sense—it was good to see a flash of normality, but it meant that he'd have to proceed cautiously. He took out his cigarette case. “I don't suppose you've any meetings with Norbert until Monday?”

“I do have a brief appointment this morning, just to sign a few papers. The manager of the Sacramento property wanted to meet today, but unfortunately his mother's been taken ill and he's cancelled it until Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“I see.”

“What are you up to, Holmes?”

“Me? Why do you imagine—”

“You're asking far too many innocent questions.”

“Ah. I was simply concerned . . . well, never mind. We shall plan an outing for the week-end.”

“Concerned that what?”

“Russell, I don't know that it's good for you to be without something to employ your mind,” he replied bluntly. “You're dwelling too much on the past. We shall hire a motor and take the Sausalito ferry to—”

“Me? I'm not the one who's ‘dwelling on the past,'” she snapped. “And I certainly don't need a nurse-maid.”

“Good, fine. You've no doubt made plans for parties with your friend. In town, I take it?”

“Why?”

“I don't . . . I would hate . . .” Holmes took a deep breath and began again. “I rather trust you won't do something foolish such as going to see your parents' summer house on your own.”

“‘Foolish'?” Russell's chin came up and her eyes flashed; with the raised colour in her face, she looked nearly herself. “Holmes, I should appreciate it if you would not try to tell me what I am and am not to do. If I choose to drive down the coast and look at the Lodge—my Lodge—then I shall do so. I need not ask your permission.”

“Russell, I merely request—”

But the heat of her response was only fed by placation. “You think it ‘foolish' when I investigate a matter, and not when you do it? Thank you, Holmes, I shall let you know what I decide to do with the week-end.” And with that she rose, dropped her table napkin on the cloth, and strode from the restaurant.