Seb opened the buff cover to reveal dozens of photographs and several press cuttings recording the happy occasion: the bride and groom, Jessica, parents, bridesmaids, friends, even a bishop, at a wedding at which he should have been the groom.

“If you’d like to choose a particular photo,” said the young man, “they’re five dollars each, and you can pick them up in a couple of days.”

“What if I wanted to buy every picture in the file. How much would that cost?”

The young man slowly counted them. “Two hundred and ten dollars,” he said eventually.

Seb took out his wallet, removed three hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the counter. “I want to take this file away now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. But as I said, if you come back in a couple of days…”

Seb extracted another hundred-dollar bill, and saw the look of desperation on the young man’s face. He knew the deal was all but closed. It was only a matter of how much.

“But I’m not allowed…” he whispered.

Before he could finish his sentence Seb placed another hundred-dollar bill on top of the other four. The young man glanced around to see that most of his colleagues were preparing to leave. He quickly gathered up the five bills, stuffed them in a pocket, and gave Seb a weak smile.

Seb grabbed the file, left the photo department, walked quickly back down the stairs, through the swing doors, and out of the building. He felt like a shoplifter, and continued running until he was sure he had escaped. At last he slowed down, caught his breath, and began to follow the signs to Union Station, the painting tucked under one arm, the folder under the other. He bought a ticket on the Amtrak express to New York, and a few minutes later climbed aboard the waiting train.

Sebastian didn’t open the folder until the train pulled out of the station. By the time he arrived at Penn Station, he couldn’t help wondering if, like Mr. Swann, he would regret not telling her for the rest of his life, because Mrs. Brewer had only been married for three months.

Chapter 27

27

HAROLD GUINZBURG placed the manuscript on the desk in front of him. Harry sat opposite him and waited for his verdict.

Guinzburg frowned when his secretary entered the room and put two steaming hot coffees and a plate of biscuits in front of them, and remained silent while she was in the room. He was clearly enjoying making Harry suffer a few more moments of torture. When the door finally closed behind her, Harry thought he would explode.

The suggestion of a smile appeared on Guinzburg’s face. “No doubt you’re wondering how I feel about your latest work,” he said, turning the screw one more notch.

Harry could have happily strangled the damn man.