“From my fella. You saw him last night; his name is Lance Cabot.”

“One of the Boston Cabots?”

She shook her head. “Denies all knowledge of them. He’s from California, but his family came from Canada, not over on the Mayflower.”

“And what kind of offer did Lance make you?”

“A thoroughly indecent one, thank you, and I accepted with alacrity. I’ve been living with him for the better part of a year.”

“What does Lance do?”

“He’s an independent business consultant, on both sides of the Atlantic.”

Yeah, I’ll bet, Stone thought. “Wait a minute,” he said, “Burroughs, Greenwich; do you have an uncle named John Bartholomew?”

She shook her head. “Nope. No uncles at all; both my parents were only children. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, forget it; someone I know said he had a niece from Greenwich, and I thought the name was Burroughs.”

“Not this Burroughs,” she said.

Very strange, he thought. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Do you always ask women their age?”

“Always. Their age isn’t important; it’s whether they’ll tell you that’s important.”

“I’m twenty-two and a half,” she said. “And now, shall I tell you why I picked you up at Harrod’s?”

“Is that what you did?”

“Didn’t you notice? Your following me made it very easy.”

“All right, tell me.”

“As I told you, I’m spoken for, but I have a very nice girlfriend who’s not, and she’s on the other side of thirty, which I should think would appeal to you more than a twenty-two-and-a-half-year-old.”

“Is she as beautiful as you?”

“Though it pains me to say it, she is more beautiful than I.”

“I would like very much to meet her.”

“You free this evening?”

“I am, as it happens.”

“Suppose we meet you in the Connaught bar at eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wear a suit.”

“Will do.”

“And now,” she said, gathering her packages together, “I must run. You stay and finish your bitter; I’m walking from here; it’s quite nearby.” She hopped off the stool and pecked Stone on the cheek. “Bye-bye.” And she was gone.

Stone sipped the now-warm ale and wondered what the hell was going on with John Bartholomew and his “niece.”

5

STONE LEFT THE GRENADIER AND walked back up the mews to Wilton Crescent. No cabs. He walked a bit farther and found himself at the Berkeley Hotel, where the doorman found him a taxi.

“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.

“There’s a chemist’s shop across from the American Embassy. You know it?”