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gables that descended to a wide porticoed entrance. This central section looked as if it had been bolted on later, almost as an afterthought. Apart from its near symmetry, about the onlything the hybrid building had going for it were the exquisite formal gardens that rolled off in all directions.
    As Hollis tugged on the bell-pull he spotted an elderly gardener observing him from beside a rose arbor, squinting beneath the brim of his straw hat, water arcing from the hose in his hand. There must be someone at home or he would have approached by now. Sure enough, there was the clatter of shoes on a wooden floor from inside the house, and the front door swung open to reveal a small, trim woman dressed in a maid’s uniform. Her long dark hair, laced with strands of gray, was pulled back tightly off her face. When she spoke, her voice betrayed a faint accent.
    ‘Good afternoon.’ Almost immediately, her hand went to her mouth. ‘ O Dio, no…’ She had read it in his eyes.
    ‘Is there…I mean, are the Wallaces at home?’
    ‘Lillian. Where is she? Is she all right?’ Her eyes pleaded with him.
    Procedure dictated that he speak to the family first, if they were present. ‘Are they here, the Wallaces?’
    ‘No,’ she choked.
    It was Thursday. Still in the city, probably. Wouldn’t be up till the weekend.
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Rosa.’
    ‘May I come in, Rosa?’

Four
    For the third time that day Manfred Wallace inhaled the heady scent of victory. He leaned forward over the backgammon board and stared at the dice. Six and five. The gamble had paid off.
    ‘God damn it, Manfred.’
    ‘Language, Peter, I believe the Chairman’s within earshot.’
    Peter Carlson arched his long neck. Sure enough, Wheaton Blake, Chairman of the club’s Card and Backgammon Committee, was seated near the bar, observing them from behind a glass of chilled white port. Peter gave a coy smile and received a guarded nod of the head in return from the Chairman: Apology accepted. This time.
    ‘You lucky bastard,’ muttered Peter under his breath.
    Manfred didn’t believe in luck, or if he did, that it was the just reward of the skillful. Behind in the race almost from the first, he had played a faultless bar point holding game, gradually eroding White’s advantage. Still ahead, Peter had been obliged to break his midpoint first, exposing himself to a double hit.
    This was the one moment Manfred’s bold stratagem had been geared towards—a pyrrhic victory or certain defeat to be determined by one roll of the dice. Ideally, he required six and five. He not only required them, he deserved them, he had earned them, they were his by right. The dice, it seemed, had agreed with him. Coming off the bar, Peter had tried valiantly to bring his two rear men home; but the game had slipped away from him along with the five hundred dollars riding on it.
    ‘Whiskey?’ asked Manfred.
    ‘Why not?’
    Manfred caught the eye of a waiter polishing glasses behind the bar and the young man hurried over.
    ‘Two whiskeys and soda please, George.’
    ‘Just a needle for me,’ said Peter.
    ‘Of whiskey, sir?’
    Peter shot him a look—soda, fool.
    ‘Ignore him, George, he’s sulking,’ said Manfred.
    ‘Ignore me, George, I’m sulking.’
    George shed a helpless look and shuffled off. Peter pulled a checkbook from his pocket and began to write.
    Manfred understood. It wasn’t the money, it was the losing. Not once, but twice; first at squash racquets, now at backgammon. The squash had also been a close-run thing. Evenly matched ever since their days on the varsity team at Yale, Peter’s fitness had dipped a little of late and Manfred had duly developed a hateful little dropshot. Their Thursday game was a regular fixture, and had been since the end of the war. Sometimes they played at the Yale Club down on Vanderbilt Avenue. More often than not the New York Racquet and Tennis Club was the chosen venue, as it was today. Built on a prime patch of