"It won't go on much longer, Nicky," Craven said. "You see, he's close. He's very close. I can feel it."

Gray looked up. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The German. Rudolph Spangler. He's close. I can feel it in my bones."

There were social affairs through November, suppers at Michard's apartment, evenings on the boulevards. As the colonel's artistic discovery, Gray nearly always received an invitation. These tended to be forced affairs, filled with near-hysterical laughter and rambling loud dialogue. On one occasion Margaretha danced half naked on cold grass while fifty spectators watched from the lawn chairs. Another time the guests were transported to the prison yard at Saint-Lazare in order to witness the execution of a strangler. Then, as all the contrivances, all the elegant perfection against a sordid life fell away, Gray also found himself drinking too much.

There were also drawings from these nights: quick sketches on the backs of menus, exaggerated portraits in a small notebook. Gray would usually record these impressions during the slack moments between conversations and cocktails, between an introduction and a parting kiss. Most were flawed, many were eventually burned, but there was one pencil sketch that was neither destroyed nor forgotten: the profile of an elegant stranger who appeared very suddenly one Saturday evening at the theater.

His name, he said, was Diderot, and the encounter was accidental. Gray had accompanied the colonel and Margaretha to a production of Lear. At some point between the cloakroom and the lobby, the colonel was greeted by a gentleman on the staircase. Although this momentarily surprised the colonel, it soon became obvious that he and the stranger were long-standing friends. There were references to summers in the south, arrangements with a foreign bank. When Margaretha was introduced, the stranger bent to kiss her hand. Then, turning to Gray, he alluded to the portrait, "which Rolland assures me is nothing less than brilliant."

Gray smiled.

"But not too brilliant, I hope." "Excuse me?"

"Otherwise we may lose sight of the original."

The man's laughter was melodious, head tipped back, lips revealing perfect teeth, slender hands holding a pair of gloves. The perfect picture of amused elegance.

It was the name—Diderot—that attracted Craven's attention. He and Gray met along the piers in the shadow of an arch. At the mention of the name, Craven was immediately intrigued, asking Gray to describe the man, to recount the conversation in detail.

Exhausted, and having drunk too much, Gray offered his drawing. "He was sitting in the gallery below the colonel's box. I had the profile for about an hour."

"And you didn't see him later?"

"No."

"Albert Diderot," Craven said. "I seem to recall that he first appeared in Spain. A ship's manifest had him as a local merchant, but our people were quite certain that he had come right out of Berlin. You did say he was alone, didn't you?"

"Yes, he was alone."