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damned if he was going to let some painted pretend Gypsy lecture him.
    "Well,” Nate snapped back, “obviously the advice you gave to Matthew Voss wasn't very good if it left him so desperate he decided to kill himself!"
    Abruptly there was silence.
    "Killed himself," whispered the woman. Then she began shaking her head. "No, no, you must be wrong. Why would he have done that? He was doing so well; he had such great plans! He would never kill himself; he wasn't that sort of man. Suicide! Wherever did you get that idea? You must be mistaken!"
    Nate was startled by the sudden change in the woman's speaking voice and demeanor. Reacting to her clear note of anguish, he replied more quietly. "I am not mistaken, Ma’am. The police surgeon confirmed it at the inquest today. Voss drank enough poison to cause almost instantaneous death. It couldn't have been an accident, there was..."
     
    Annie no longer heard the voice of Mr. Dawson saying those terrible things. She was no longer listening. She found herself pulled back across time and a continent to a suffocating overheated room in a fashionable New York City town house. She could hear hushed whispers behind her and from a nearby room a steady sobbing. She felt so cold inside, yet the roaring fire seemed to scorch her very skin. Ice, she was made of ice. The ice maiden. That was what her husband John had called her towards the end. And now he was dead. Killed by his own hand. Her poor husband had been too weak to face the disaster he had made of his life, and he had taken the coward's way out. Mr. Voss had been no coward.
    Annie felt herself swaying. She vaguely registered that the lawyer had moved over to her and was gently supporting her to the chair by the table, where she sat down abruptly. Feeling as if she was enclosed in a glass wall that muffled sounds, she rested her head briefly on her arms. The astringent smell of brandy unexpectedly assaulted her. She reared back, only to have him thrust a tumbler full of the amber liquid into her hands. She took a small sip, and the glass enclosure dissolved.
    "Feeling better?" Mr. Dawson’s voice seemed unusually loud.
    Looking up at him, she saw he was staring at her intently. Annie glanced quickly away, putting the glass on the table before her. Her momentary weakness embarrassed her, and his close scrutiny made her uncomfortably aware of being in her Sibyl disguise. His next words confirmed her fears.
    "Mrs. Fuller, what in heaven’s name prompted you to play this abominable charade? Why are you pretending to be this woman Sibyl!"
    She stiffened, declaring, "I am not pretending. I am Madam Sibyl."
    He began to sputter. "But why, Mrs. Fuller? A woman of your obvious class and refinement."
    "Whom you mistook earlier for a brothel owner!" Annie cut in.
    "But that was only because we, my Uncle Frank and I, thought that Sibyl was a...well, that Voss and she were engaged in some sort of illicit relationship. I mean, there was every reason to believe so, and that was the root of the misunderstanding. Oh hell! How can I...."
    She noted the flush on his face and thought how it made him seem younger. He sat down heavily in the chair across from her and took a deep breath.
    "It happened this way. Early this morning, my uncle, Frank Hobbes, called me into the office to tell me about Matthew Voss’s death. I'd been out of town visiting my family, so I hadn't heard about it. Probate is my responsibility, and usually it’s a pretty simple business. But Uncle Frank told me there had been a good deal of confusion about the cause of death and that there was strong evidence of suicide. He said that, although Voss’s business partner had assured him that the business was on a secure financial footing, Matthew's personal finances seemed to be in disarray. According to his bank, there is currently very little money in Voss’s account. In fact, at this point, except for the house and the business, Voss appears to have been practically