Stone endured a moment’s temptation to call Wheeling and tell him everything, but the moment passed, and he returned to putting as much emotional distance as possible between himself and the Nijinsky case and the suicide of Hank Morgan.

He made himself some supper and resumed his varnishing of the bookshelves, trying to let his mind run over the day’s lecture. He was surprised at the familiarity of the material after so many years, and he was encouraged to think he might pass the bar exam after all.

On Saturday night Elaine gave Stone and Cary a table next to the piano. Stone liked piano music, and he was particularly enjoying the way Lauren was playing Rodgers and Hart. When they had finished dinner, Elaine joined them.

“Remember that guy, Doc? At the bar awhile back? The diagnostician?”

“Yeah. In fact, I saw a lot of him during the Nijinsky thing.”

“We had a weird thing in here with him last night. He was playing doctor with some little girl at the bar, and they left together, and, a minute later, she’s back in here, nearly hysterical. She said Doc had tried to muscle her into a van, and she was scared to death.”

“Did you call the precinct?”

“Nah, it didn’t seem as serious as that. I gave her a brandy and calmed her down; she didn’t want to take it any farther. I’m going to throw the bum out the next time he walks in here, though.”

“He wrote Sasha Nijinsky a thousand or so letters over the past couple of years.”

“No kidding?”

“It didn’t get in the papers, but we had a look at his place and where he works. He’s an embalmer for a funeral parlor, you know.”

“He’s not a doctor?”

“Nope. He did graduate from medical school, but he was never licensed. I thought the guy was harmless, but when he starts trying to drag girls into vans, well…”

“He’s never setting foot in here again,” Elaine said emphatically.

In bed, Cary seemed tired and distracted, and their lovemaking was brief and perfunctory, something that had never happened before. The extra work seemed to be getting her down, and, God knew, Stone was tired himself. Eight hours a day of class and another four of varnishing was wearing him down.

On Sunday morning, Cary ate her breakfast listlessly. “Are you as zonked as I am?” she asked.

“Yeah. It’s okay; we’re both under the gun at the moment.”

“Thanks for understanding. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week, and now I’m a wreck.”

“It’s okay, really it is.”

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home and try to get some sleep this afternoon.”

He did his best to hide his disappointment. “Next Saturday?”

“Absolutely.”

The next Saturday was much the same.