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road. “As soon as you get home, find a yacht broker and have him fly a ferry crew down here at the earliest possible moment to get the boat out of here.”
    “All right.” She dug into her handbag and came up with a card. “Here’s my number in Greenwich; will you call me when you get back? I’ll buy you dinner.”
    “That might be tough to explain to the lady I live with,” Stone said, “but I would like to know how things work out. I’ll call you.”
    “So why isn’t this lady with you?”
    “She got snowed in. Oh, I hadn’t thought of it, but the airports might still be closed up there. When you get to San Juan, check with the airlines. It might be best to spend a night there and wait for the weather in the Northeast to clear up.”
    “Thanks, I’ll do that.” She smiled at him. “Sure you don’t want to come with me?”
    “It’s a lovely thought, but I’ve got a yacht charter here, and I hope Arrington will be here soon.”
    “My bad luck,” she said.
    God, Stone thought, you’re supposed to be the grieving widow! He drove through the airport gates andtoward a large hangar. The Cessna was parked in front of it, and the pilot who had flown him to St. Marks from Antigua was waiting. “There’s Chester,” Stone said.
    “Thank God,” she said.
    Stone pulled up next to the plane, took her duffel and her briefcase, and stowed them in the baggage compartment. He walked back to the wing and held open the door for her. “You’re on your way,” he said.
    An engine coughed to life, followed by another.
    She slung an arm around his neck and gave him a much bigger and wetter kiss than he could have expected. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough, but I’ll try,” she shouted over the roar of the engines. “Good-bye.”
    “Good-bye,” Stone said. Then an unexpected sound reached his ears. He looked back toward the airport gate and saw a Jeep driving toward them, making some sort of strange siren noise.
    The vehicle skidded to a halt next to the airplane, and two starched and pressed black policemen got out. The officer gave them a casual salute with a swagger stick. “Mrs. Allison Manning, I presume?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “Good afternoon,” he said, smiling, then handed her a document. “You are under arrest for the crime of murder. You will be charged tomorrow morning at ten o’clock at the courthouse in St. Marks City. Do you have any luggage?”
    “No,” Stone said quickly, “Mrs. Manning does not have any luggage.” He took the document and looked at it; it appeared to be a properly drawn warrant. He turned to Allison. “You’ll have to go with them. I’ll get you a locallawyer and see you at the hearing tomorrow morning. I doubt if I can get anything done until then.”
    Allison looked stunned. “All right,” she said. She put a hand on his arm. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She got into the Jeep and was driven away.
    Chester killed the engines. Stone watched until the Jeep had driven through the airport gates, then went and got her duffel and briefcase from the luggage compartment. He didn’t know what was in that briefcase, but he knew that he didn’t want Sir Winston Sutherland rooting around in there. Poor Allison Manning, he thought. She’s in for a rough time, and I suppose I’m going to have to help her.

Chapter
7
    S tone drove back to Markstown, mulling over what he might do to help Allison Manning. There wasn’t a whole lot, he reckoned. He could find her a local lawyer, and that was about it. Then he recalled that Sir Winston had asked him, during the fateful coroner’s jury, if he were licensed to practice in Britain. Maybe, with the help of Woodman and Weld in New York, he could get hold of some high-class British barrister and have him flown in, if Allison Manning could afford it. He parked the car behind Thomas Hardy’s restaurant and walked in.
    Thomas was alone at the bar, writing on a steno pad. He looked up as Stone came in. “I