“I say it because it’s true. I haven’t told you everything I know, because I can’t. That’s the nature of this job. But I have always conducted my affairs in as honorable a fashion as I can. To lay as many cards as possible upon the table, depending on how well I can trust the person sitting across from me. I would like to trust you, Miss Macallister, and I hope you can trust me. I don’t believe I overstate the case when I say that your sister’s life depends on it.”

He’s not a handsome man, Sumner Fox, as I’ve already explained. His wide, blunt face bears no more resemblance to the exquisite men I’ve signed to the Hudson Agency than an army boot resembles a custom Italian shoe. The ruff of hair on his head is an afterthought, so pale it’s nearly white. His nose looks as if someone’s nudged it gently to one side. The most you can say of his looks is that they’re arresting—no pun intended—and yet I can’t seem to look away from him. I stare into his colorless eyes the way you stare into a mirror. I badly want a cigarette.

“What makes you think you can trust me, Mr. Fox?”

He stares at me as if this isn’t what he was expecting me to say. Then he reaches behind his back and lifts a manila envelope. His arm is remarkably long, like a gorilla’s. He offers me the envelope.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“What I was busy obtaining for you last weekend. You see, Miss Macallister, I already know a great deal about you. I hope that doesn’t disturb you. I know that your father took his life in 1929, when you were eleven years old, and your mother died of cancer when you were twenty. You attended the Chapin School in Manhattan from 1923 until 1935, when you graduated and enrolled at Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts, along with your twin sister, and earned a bachelor’s degree in geology, of all things—”

“I like rocks,” I say.

“—and then traveled with your sister to Rome, where your brother worked in the consular services department of the US embassy.”

“Congratulations on your fine detective work, Mr. Fox. Those are all nice facts.”

“Signore Orlovsky,” says Fox, in perfect Italian, and without looking away, “may I beg you for a moment of privacy with Miss Macallister?”

“Yes, of course.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Orlovsky bow—briefly—and walk out of the studio.

“Your Italian’s a lot better than mine,” I tell Fox.

“Language is a hobby of mine. May I continue?”

I don’t especially want him to continue. I have a bad feeling about his continuing. Still, I shrug back as if I don’t care. As if I’m curious to discover what he knows about me.