“I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

“Gorham Master.”

“Sarah Adler Cohen.”

A signal. She was telling him she had a professional name. He thought quickly. She saved him.

“I have the Sarah Adler Art Gallery. And would you be the son of Charlie Master, who had the Keller photography collection?”

“Yes, I am.”

And then he remembered, with a feeling of sinking horror. This was the lady he was supposed to deliver the Motherwell to. The drawing that still graced the living room in the apartment. Was she expecting it? Did she know that his father had told him to go and see her? A terrible feeling of guilt overcame him.

But the old lady was chatting to him quite happily. What was she saying?

“Well, when I was young, before I had my own place, your father came to the gallery where I worked and arranged a show of Theodore Keller’s work there. And I was put in charge of it. The first show I ever did. So I got to meet your father. I was very sorry to hear he died.”

“I never knew that. I’m so delighted to meet you,” he stammered. She must be in her seventies, he supposed. She had a nice face, intelligent. She glanced at her husband and son, but they had been distracted by other guests.

“You like this party?” she asked.

“Of course. Don’t you?”

She shrugged. “Too much conspicuous consumption for my taste.” She looked at him thoughtfully, rather in the way, he supposed, that she might look at a painting she was appraising. “You should come by the gallery some time,” she said. “I’m there most afternoons. Monday the gallery’s closed, but I work there alone all day. Monday is a good day to call on me.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a card. She glanced at her husband, but he was talking to someone else. “Actually,” she said to Gorham quietly, “I have something of your father’s I want to give you. Would you call me on Monday?”

“I’ll do that,” he promised, then saw the time. “I’m really sorry, I have to go—we have a dinner party.”

“In that case, you’re probably late already.” Sarah Adler smiled. “Go. Go.” But just before he turned, she added: “Promise to call me, Monday.”

She was right. He was late. He got an exasperated look from Maggie on his return. But fortunately only one of the couples had arrived, and these two were his favorites, Herbert and Mary Humblay. Herbert was a retired clergyman, and they lived in a nice old co-op on Sutton Place. The Humblays were good people to have at a dinner party. Their circle of friends in the city was huge, they had wide interests, and if there were any latent tensions between the dinner guests, their kindly presence seemed miraculously to defuse them.