If he’s shocked, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t even blink. “I don’t deal in speculation, Miss Macallister. I deal only in facts.”

I lean a little closer. “Come on, now. I promise I won’t spill the beans to the papers or anything. She is my sister, after all.”

You must understand that my heart’s beating like a dynamo. I hope he’s not the kind of fellow who looks at your neck to determine your pulse. I think I manage to keep the cigarette from shaking between my fingers, but it’s a question of mind over matter, believe me—of a self-control honed over years spent sitting across from men at desks and restaurant tables and boardrooms like this one. I raise the cigarette to my lips and stare inquisitively at the dent between Mr. Fox’s thick, straight eyebrows while I wait for him to speak. That’s harder than it sounds, by the way. Most human beings would rather swallow a live goldfish than a lump of silence.

Mr. Fox leans back in his chair. He wears a dark suit and a dark, plain tie, just in case you can’t guess what he does for a living. His shirt collar is white and crisp around his thick pink neck. “Let’s return to the known facts,” he says. “Mr. and Mrs. Digby lived overseas almost without pause since their marriage in June of 1940. Mr. Digby’s work took them to various US embassies and consulates around the world. Their last leave stateside occurred in 1947, just before Mr. Digby took up the post in London.”

“Is that so? I must have missed her. Shame.”

“But you did say that Mrs. Schuyler gave you regular reports on Mrs. Digby’s whereabouts and style of life, didn’t you?”

I shrug. “I didn’t always listen.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s true. Anyway, they were always moving from country to country, those two, mingling with princes and popping out babies. How many was it? Three?”

He glances at his notebook. “She was expecting her third when she disappeared.”

“How lovely. Say.” I lean forward and frown. “If they’re in some kind of trouble, you’re not going to make me adopt the offspring, are you? I don’t get along well with children.”

“I’m happy to say that’s not a matter within the scope of our powers at the FBI, Miss Macallister. Returning to the matter at hand. You say you haven’t had any communication with her at all? Nothing recent, for example? Letters? Postcards?”

“Why should I? After all these years?”

“You tell me.”

I lean back again and cross one leg over the other. The chair squeaks agreeably. “You should talk to Aunt Vivian. She’s the one who used to get all the letters.”

“I already have.”

“Harry? Our brother? He’s out in Alaska somewhere, last I heard.”