He ordered for them both. When their drinks were before them, she inflicted a dose of spirits onto her mistreated insides, then set down her glass sharply and announced, “I'm going down to the Lodge tomorrow.”

He arranged a look of mild surprise on his face. “Do you think that's a good idea?”

“I don't know, but I think it's necessary.”

“Do you wish me to come?”

“I telephoned to Flo this morning, and she'd like to go—her friend Donny will drive us. We'll be back on Wednesday; there's some museum opening Donny wants to attend.”

“Hm,” he grunted. “I'd have thought you'd want to drive yourself.” Russell disliked being driven anywhere.

“I'm sure he'll let me have the wheel part of the time,” she said, although Holmes, having seen the lad's pride in that gaudy motor, had his doubts.

“How many people know of your plans?”

She fixed him with a glare. “Holmes, I know you think I'm being particularly stupid lately, but give me some credit. Neither of them know precisely where the place is, although I had to tell them roughly where we were heading. And I asked them to keep it quiet—I said I didn't want anyone else to know, because they'd want to join us and make it more of a bash than I wanted.”

“‘Bash.'”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course.”

“I hope you don't mind. That I'm abandoning you here,” she said, belatedly concerned for his welfare.

“Not in the least. I have plenty to keep me busy.”

“Your Paganini research?”

“Actually, it's proving quite intriguing. Do you know, there is a theory that Paganini was commissioned by the Duke of . . .” but between the alcohol and her own concerns, she soon stopped listening. Which was precisely what he had intended.

When the drink was half gone and her eyes had begun to glaze with boredom, he dropped the diversion and told her, “I believe I've identified your faceless man.” Then he corrected himself. “Not identified, perhaps, although I've got a lead on him.”

She stared, picked up the glass and gulped down the second half, coughed a while, then, eyes watering, asked, “What?”

“The faceless man of your second dream. I found an elderly woman who spent some time in the park following the earthquake, and remembered your family. She also gave me the tale of a man coming to the tent city the day the rains began, which was the Sunday, who'd had his facial hair scorched off and wore some white ointment on his skin. Probably zinc oxide,” Holmes noted.

“Ointment,” she repeated, and reached for her empty glass. Holmes raised a finger to the waiter for another.

“The chap was looking for your father. He went to your tent, and his appearance frightened you. Miss Adderley's informant remembered your shrieks.”

“My God.”