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no matter how humorous the situation, his eyes almost constantly watching her.
    They talked of her plans and of his plans for her. And they ate. She grew warm with food and wine, and then they drove through the thinning London traffic to his flat.
    It was on the edge of Mayfair, not far from her hotel, and was a fancier place than she had expected of him. He helped her off with her cape, his fingers lingering on her bare shoulders, his lips smiling their sleepy, anticipatory smile that she knew so well.
    â€œI have your favorite brandy,” he said, and left her alone in the soft warmth of the room. It was the kind of place one could sink into, she felt, new and modern, yet restful. Taking a deep chair by the radio, she found a soft air by Brahms, leaned back and closed her eyes.
    Leon returned with the brandy. They sat and sipped it quietly, listening to the music. Only when it ended did she allow herself to be fully aware of Leon, and it was then that she became conscious of something that had nagged her throughout the evening, but which she had refused to face.
    There was something in Leon’s eyes she had never seen there before. Now she could see it clearly. Leon was afraid. He had hid it well, but now it came and went in the space of time it took him to turn down the radio.
    He sat on the arm of her chair, put his fingers beneath her chin, and turned her head so that she faced him.
    â€œIt has been so long, Lenore.”
    â€œTwo and a half months yesterday, Leon.” She could feel her breath shaking her again, but this was the familiar excitement she had always associated with Leon. His fingers were on her shoulder, his lips at the edge of her hairline.
    â€œLenore?”
    She reached up, running her fingers along his cheek. “Yes, Leon.”
    â€¢ • •
    In the soft light from a lamp by the bed, she lay quietly and looked into his face. She wanted to reach out and touch him as always, to trace the line of his nose and chin with her fingertips, but she could not. He was unaware of her. She was gone from his eyes; only fear lay there now, openly and starkly ugly.
    She said, “Leon, can I help?”
    He turned his head so that she could no longer see his expression. When he spoke, his voice was strange, different from anything she had ever heard. “There is nothing to help, Lenore.”
    From the simple gesture of his turning away, from the tone of his voice, she realized the truth.
    Leon knew that she knew.
    Lenny had never before been afraid of Leon; he had always seemed the gentlest of men. But there was something in his voice when he repeated, “It’s nothing, Lenore. There’s nothing to help,” that was unlike the Leon she knew, that frightened her.
    And in her sudden, sharp awareness of him, she also knew that he was planning to use her. Through her mind went the parade of little tricks Leon had—the facial expressions, the ingenious denials that she could be of assistance, the slow succumbing to argument, the agreement, and finally the letting her help him. Each step of their relationship had been that way.
    She thought, The man in the hotel was right. She had really known it all along. Otherwise, she would not have been afraid of Leon.
    She listened to Leon breathing heavily, feigning sleep, and for the first time she could see clearly the meaning of many of the things he had done and said. And yet it was not a shock. Only the fact of her fear was a shock. She had not known that she would ever be afraid of Leon.
    He knew—and now she saw that this also could be a possible advantage. Because her knowing that he knew without his being aware of her knowledge put her in a position of potential power. Obviously, Leon wanted to use her again. And he would try to use her in such a way that she would be tangled even more irrevocably in his affairs, so that she would not even have the escape offered her by the Chief.
    She thought,
Let him use me then.
And