We arranged to meet at noon, which gave me an hour and a half to begin my search. I joined the other passengers on the bus and we bumped our way up the windy road, the little bus belching out smoke and groaning as the hill became steeper. We saw glimpses of the bay as the town spread out below us. Then we were in an area of impressive villas. A great white curved building loomed over us. So that was the Hotel Regina, where my esteemed great-grandmother had stayed with her retinue of one hundred. I didn’t think somehow that they would rent bicycles.

I got off with the other English tourists, who made straight for a ruined Roman amphitheater, their cameras at the ready. I asked for directions to the street where Neville’s aunt’s villa was situated. It was actually not far below that great hotel. Since I could find no businesses here that might be willing to rent me a bicycle, I set off on foot, surveying the area. To one side was an olive grove and a monastery and beyond them the terrain fell away sharply, down to a river below. There was no way down that I could see. So I had to think. If this girl had been riding, not wheeling her bicycle, she could not have come from down below. The climb was simply too steep and she would have been wheeling it and out of breath. And above us seemed to be vineyards and small farms. Which must mean that I had to find a road that wound around the hill.

I started from Neville’s villa and continued westward as the road hugged the hillside. At times I glimpsed a spectacular view of the city and the Baie des Anges sparkling in the sunshine. There was no traffic and the only person I saw was an occasional gardener, working outside one of the villas. I sang out gaily, “Bonjour,” in the hope of seeing recognition on their faces, but a polite “Bonjour” was all I received in return. So the girl was not known in this quarter. Which made me wonder why she had ridden her bike here. It certainly wasn’t a shortcut to anywhere. Which must mean that she had wanted members of the English community to see her and to notice her—to think that she was I. It was all so horribly and thoroughly well planned, and the worrying thought came to me that she had known exactly what I was wearing that day, when I had only bought the outfit hours before. Someone had been spying on all my movements.