“Seven hours ago. You will have a breakfast,” he said flatly, and turned to the waiter to order two large meals. She raised an eyebrow at his tone and his action, and when the waiter had left, Holmes addressed himself to her again. “Occasional periods of self-starvation benefit the mental processes; over the long term, it can be destructive. The body is a machine, and needs fuel. Think of your porridge and eggs as petrol.”

“They will have about as much savour.”

“The body cares not what the palate thinks. What is in the news today?”

He listened with half an ear as she read to him a number of political and criminological stories that concerned him not in the least—“3 FLUNG TO ROAD FROM CABLE-CAR” was one admittedly evocative headline, less so the lengthy tale of a woman who came home from filing for divorce to find her three children and the husband shot to death by his hand. When their food came, he waited until she had begun before he picked up his fork, and felt he was nearly counting the number of times her own rose and fell. After a time, the habits of her own physicality took over, and he relaxed his vigil, and paid closer attention to her words.

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?”