Straight ahead, Henry said. What? Straight ahead. She lives in that place on the corner. Right or left? On the right. The car stopped before the Mellon residence. Light rain pattered on the roof of the car, on the sidewalk, on the trees. This it, Henry? He looked down at his lap, his groin—source of his troubles—shook his wet, shaggy hair, tried to raise his hands. He groaned. What’s that? Yes, he moaned. But for godsake…Both policemen got out of the car. The one with the shotgun opened the door by the sidewalk. Out of the car, he muttered. Move.

Henry bent low, crawled out, straightened up. He shuffled between the two policemen as they advanced through the open gate and up the flagstone walk toward the house—a gaunt soaked scarecrow between a pair of uniformed gladiators. As the three tramped up the steps of the porch he heard the music from inside the house—K. 376 still, andante movement—come to a sudden stop. A murmur of voices. Before the police sergeant could push the doorbell button the front door was opened from within. Opened wide.

Mrs. Mellon stood in the doorway. Behind her, near a baby grand piano, stood Claire with her violin and bow. At her side—chin on her shoulder—stood a fair young man of medium height (short) with pink cheeks and a blond mustache; he wore a blue blazer, a tie, a white shirt with button-down collar. His left arm lay about Claire’s slender waist, his small white graceful hand resting lightly but protectively, with possessive assurance, on the warm curve of her hip. He smiled, affecting disdainful amusement but staring all the same. Claire looked pale, beautiful, alarmed, amazed.

Politely the sergeant tipped his black-visored cap to the lady of the house. He tightened his grip on Henry Lightcap’s upper arm. Madame, he said, we found this—this fellow here—lurking under a tree down the street. He looked at Henry, then back at Mrs. Mellon. He claims he knows you. Care to identify him?

Mrs. Mellon looked at Henry, at the police sergeant, at the manacled prisoner and his keepers. A glitter appeared in her distinguished eyes. Her mouth formed a small satisfied smile, revealing in the chink between her lips the firm set of her whitened whetted central incisors, the points of her canines.

Claire took a deep breath.

THEY WERE MARRIED ten months later. The modest ceremony took place at Point Imperial on the north rim of the Grand Canyon, on a peninsula of limestone overlooking Marble Gorge, Saddle Mountain, Cape Solitude, the mouth of the Little Colorado River, the Vermilion Cliffs, the Echo Cliffs, Coconino County, the Navajo Reservation, the Painted Desert, Navajo Mountain, the San Francisco Peaks, one-sixth of Arizona and various other features of geological, historical, morphological and ethnographic interest. Eight thousand eight hundred and three feet above sea level. At evening, under the new moon.

Claire’s idea.

Presiding was an Episcopalian priest flown all the way from Denver, along with Mrs. Mellon and friend and friends of the bride, in a chartered Learjet. A solemn comely bearded man, Father Cheswick spoke with a slight lisp, concluding his every other sentence with the phrase et thetera or alternately and soo [sic] forth. He liked cigars with his champagne.