“How’s it going with James’s estate?” he asked, wanting to remind her that she should, strictly speaking, be in mourning.

“Splendidly,” she said. “Julian Wainwright has had a word with the conglomerate, and it looks as though they’re still interested in buying the business.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yes, it is.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Will I see you this week?”

“Of course. Oh, by the way, do you know if Monica spoke to Lance the other night, after she gave me the keys to the Farm Street house?”

“I don’t think so; we had dinner together, and I dropped her off at her place later. She didn’t call anyone while we were together. Why?”

“I decided not to go to Lance’s house, since it really isn’t any of my business, and I didn’t want Lance to think I had been there.”

“I’m seeing Monica later today; I could mention that to her, if you like.”

“I’d appreciate that. I put the keys through her mail slot not long after she gave them to me.”

“All right, then, I’ll see you later, I hope.”

“Of course,” Stone replied, and hung up feeling guilty.

Seated at the corner table, with Arrington beside him, in the warm glow of the Connaught restaurant, Stone no longer felt guilty. The difficult past he and Arrington shared had receded; all he could think about was here and now.

“It’s so good to see you,” Arrington said.

“And you.”

“When I saw you in Palm Beach, you said you’d call me the next day. Why didn’t you?”

He had called her in the morning and a man had answered, so he had hung up. “You’ll recall the circumstances of the evening,” Stone said. “I had to make a stop at the local hospital, and they got me out of there early the next morning on Thad Shames’s jet.” It had been from the jet that he had called her. “By the time I got to New York and the drugs had worn off, you had left Palm Beach.” He was guessing that she had left.

“Yes, I left the next day,” she said. “Oh, by the way, here’s that list you asked for.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her purse.

Stone looked at the list: the Swedish ambassador and his wife; the Belgian chargé d’affaires and wife; the Israeli cultural attaché and wife; the German military attaché and wife; the Australian head of chancery and wife. “There’s no seating plan,” he said.

“Sorry, I couldn’t get that; some secretary had apparently shredded it, or something.”

It was a start, Stone thought; he’d have to go over this with Hedger.

“Why did you want the list?”

“There was a man at the table I recognized, but I couldn’t place him.”

“You know a lot of diplomats, do you?”