She had lied to him from the beginning; the married man in her life had always been Harkness; Stone had been just a diversion. As Sunday wore on, Stone began to find a way to deal with his thoughts of her; he hardened himself, belittled the weeks they had had together, made her unimportant. By Monday morning a scab was beginning to form on the wound. He would force it to heal.

On Monday morning a gossip columnist in the News had the story:

The Barron Harknesses are calling it a day, after more than twenty years together and two children. We hear the ice age crept up on the marriage long ago, and the split is just a final acknowledgment of reality.

Insiders say that Barron is being uncommonly generous, that Charlotte Harkness is getting both the house in Easthampton and the ten-room Fifth Avenue digs, where Barron has long been chairman of the cooperative’s board.

We hear, too, that as part of their agreement, a certain other apartment owner has to leave the building immediately, surely a new wrinkle in divorce settlements.

Since Barron has never been seen squiring ladies around town, speculation on his paramour centers on the Continental Network—insiders figure it must be somebody at the office. Watch this space.

Stone threw the newspaper at the wall, then concentrated on forming the scab again. The phone rang.

“Hi, it’s Bill. I just wanted to let you know that the outcome of Friday night’s little opus has been most satisfactory for my client.”

“I read the item in the news,” Stone said. “I’m happier than you know that it worked out so well for her.” He did his best to mean this.

“Woodman is delighted, too. He was very, very nervous about your being involved in something like this, and it’s unlikely he’ll want to do it again soon, but he asked me to express his gratitude.”

“Tell him I was glad to be of help.”

“I’ve got nothing on my plate at the moment that I might need you for, so take it easy for a while. Why don’t you take a vacation? The islands or someplace?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got a lot more work to do on the house; I’ll use any free time for that. I have to get an office together, too.”

“Right, whatever you say. I’ll let you know when I have something else for you.”

Stone hung up and glanced out the window. A moving van had pulled up outside, and furniture was being loaded into it. Feldstein was moving out of the downstairs professional suite. That suited Stone fine; he’d need the space now.