The first thing I did was what most women would do in a similar situation: decide that I had nothing to wear. If I was to meet the famous Harry Houdini at the theater tonight and be presented as a future assistant I had to look the part of a theater artiste. And as to finding something I could wear onstage—something like Lily’s glittering white ensemble—well, I had no idea where I might rustle up one of those.

I went upstairs and examined the few items of clothing hanging in my wardrobe. My own clothing was plain and practical in the extreme. I had, after all, arrived in this country with literally the clothes on my back and my earnings since had just about kept body and soul together. But at the far back of the wardrobe I found something that encouraged me. It was the outfit Oona Sheehan had lent me when she had hired me to impersonate her. It was a smart black-and-white striped grosgrain two-piece. I took it out and examined it in the light. It was unfortunately rather the worse for wear, having been through a lot while I was in Ireland, but it would do at a pinch for tonight’s meeting with Houdini.

But as to what I could wear as a magician’s assistant . . . I did the next thing I always did in moments of crisis like this: I went across the street to Sid and Gus.

Gus opened the door, a riding crop in one hand and wearing an elegant riding habit. Her cheeks were flushed. “Molly!” she exclaimed. “We’ve just returned from Central Park. We’ve been out riding.”

“Pretending to be Mongolian warriors?” I asked cautiously.

“Not quite. We thought that we ought to brush up our riding skills before we undertook an expedition somewhere wild like the Jersey shore and tried a flat-out gallop along the sands. I’m afraid those poor, tired horses will never be the same, especially after Sid’s little episode.”

“What did she do?” I asked.

“You know Sid. Always pushes everything to the limit. First she was most annoyed because they insisted on giving her a sidesaddle. Then she asked if she could ride bareback instead and of course they refused. So no sooner were we out of the stable than she urged the poor animal into a gallop, throwing up the dust along the drive and terrifying children. Then she decided she wanted to see if she could leap into the saddle while the beast was moving, the way they do it in Mongolia.”

“Jesus, Mary, and—” I started to say before I caught myself. These Irish expressions tended to come out in moments of crisis. I was trying to eliminate them if I was ever to become the sophisticated New Yorker. “So what happened?” I asked.