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mailbox labeled with block letters: CARTER . Turning onto the winding drive, he is struck by how flawlessly everything is maintained—fencing, ornamental trees, beds of fall flowers. Things have certainly been kept in order, as if for Helena Carter’s imminent return. Rounding a curve of the wooded drive, he finds himself in view of the house, the lake, and a widespread freshly mowed lawn that glows electric green against the blur of a dark sky.
    Parking near the front of the house, Manning checks the pockets of his trench coat for pen and notebook before stepping out into the rain. He ducks into his collar, dashes to the door, and rings the bell. As he waits, the lake roils beyond.
    When the heavy enameled door at last cracks open, a stooped man in his sixties peers out for a moment, then swings the door wide, saying, “Good morning, Mr. Manning. We’ve been expecting you.”
    Manning steps into the checkered-tile entry hall and removes his coat. He fumbles in the pockets for his pen and steno book, studying the little man as they exchange small talk. A uniformed butler would fit this setting to a tee, but the man is dressed in freshly pressed work clothes—chambray shirt and wash pants. His manner is friendly and homey, not the least pretentious. Then Manning remembers. “You’re Arthur Mendel,” he tells the man. This is the nefarious houseman, the cunning majordomo whom Humphrey Hasting seems determined to bring to justice.
    “I’m flattered that you remember,” says Arthur. “It’s been nearly seven years. And the day you were here, the day after Mrs. Carter disappeared, things were a bit hectic.” Chuckling at his own understatement, he takes Manning’s coat and leads him through the house, saying, “Miss O’Connor was happy to get your call. She’s waiting for you in the parlor.” Arthur opens a paneled walnut door to let Manning pass, closing it behind him.
    The room is intimate in scale, designed for small groups of guests. Comfortable stuffed furniture faces a hickory fire framed by a mantel of coral-streaked marble. On a low table before it, a silver coffee service reflects the flames. Two cups and saucers flank a tray of pastries.
    “I didn’t know if you’d have eaten,” says a voice, its speaker hidden by the chintz-covered wings of a plump chair. “I get the impression that young people don’t bother with breakfast.” Margaret O’Connor, sister of the missing heiress, rises to face her visitor, offering her hand as he steps forward. She is a small woman, tastefully dressed—perhaps too formally for the early hour. Her hair has been freshly, primly coiffed, with no attempt to hide the gray that now ousts the brown.
    “You’re too kind, Miss O’Connor,” Manning tells her, taking her hand.
    “Won’t you please call me Margaret, Mr. Manning? I find ‘Miss’ a touch unbecoming for a woman of my age.” She winks at him.
    By Manning’s calculation, she is only forty-eight years old, eight years younger than her sister, but she does, in truth, exude a spinsterly air. He is charmed by her candor. “I’d be delighted, Margaret. Please call me Mark.”
    “I’d like that very much,” she answers, patting his hand. “May I offer you anything?”
    “Just coffee, thank you.”
    They settle themselves, she serves, and they relax for a moment before beginning the interview. “Will you mind if I take a few notes?” Manning asks, opening his book.
    She dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. “Of course not. That’s why you’re here.”
    A cat appears from around the base of Manning’s chair, brushing the length of its body along his cuff. Its huge gold almond-shaped eyes look up at him; Manning’s green eyes stare back at the animal. The cat’s dense brown fur seems vibrantly orange in the glow of the fire. Each hair is tipped with darker shades of brown or black, like the coat of a wild animal. Its lithe body, long front legs, and big tufted ears give the cat a regal,