Sitting down on the bed, throbbing head in hands, he attempted to piece together the events of the night before. He remembered the poker game, of course, and then drinking with Harry. Reluctantly, heavily, he remembered what Harry had told him. And then all he wanted to do was to go back to sleep in this little boy’s bed and stay there.

From somewhere outside the room came clattering sounds. Dishes, perhaps. The muted thumping of cupboard doors being closed. The trill of a young child speaking French.

He’d gone home, hadn’t he? In a taxi? He’d been angry. He’d wanted to talk to her even if it meant waking her up. But her bed was empty. There was no sign of her anywhere in the apartment.

More chatter from the child in the other room. An answering voice, deep and soft. A woman’s voice.

He’d taken another taxi back to the club, looking for Harry. He had a horrible feeling, thinking back, that he was crying when he arrived. Madame Hubert, the owner, was friendly enough, but told him his friend had left. She asked him if he wanted to come in. And he’d said…oh, dear, he’d said yes.

Was that where he was now? In some back room of the club?

“Please God, no.”

The scraping of a chair against a wooden floor. The woman telling the child that he should get on and finish his breakfast. It was almost time to leave for school.

It was coming back to him bit by dreadful bit. A brass bed with a dirty yellow counterpane. A girl in a corset who smelled of cheap perfume. He’d just wanted to sleep on his own, but she’d gotten in too. He’d been so tired, but she’d kept prodding and whispering and sidling up to him. Getting in his face.

“Mr. Shelby King?” The woman again. “Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

This surely wasn’t the club. He distinctly remembered the brass bed, that yellow bedding. The room was wrong for the club. And that back-alley view out the window—this wasn’t Montmartre.

“Mr. Shelby King? I don’t mean to disturb you, but…I’m leaving a dressing gown for you. You’ll find it just outside the door.”

He knew the voice. He knew it well.

“Thank you, Marie-Claire. I shall be out directly.”

She was sitting at the kitchen table with her son, who must have been seven or eight years old. They were eating bread and jam and drinking milky coffee out of bowls. The boy was prattling away, but Marie-Claire told him to hush when she became aware of Robert standing in the doorway.