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second scrapbook and leafed through it. “Here we are.”
    The photo was of her and her sister in front of the same great vault, flanked by four different but equally solemn men. The same cases and necklaces lay on the table.
    â€œIt’s our official introduction to being Stonehouse women,” said Amelia with a little laugh. “We get to go down and be photographed with the keepers of the sacred jewels. I think Emily’s daughter did the same pose several years back.”
    I thought two of the men looked familiar. They were the youngest of the four.
    â€œI saw their pictures in your photo album,” I said, pointing.
    â€œYou have a good memory. I imagine it came in handy when you were a policeman in Boston. Yes. The tall one is Willard Blunt and the short one is Jasper Cabot. Willard and I actually dated a time or two before and after the war. We were both considered a bit wild, if you can imagine that. Rebellious youth, our parents thought. We had been exposed to dangerous views. I at Radcliffe, he both at Harvard and off in the Middle East, where they posted him in the war. They considered our political and economic views to be absolutely radical. Of course to our parents, Roosevelt was somewhere left of Lenin and Marx. Willard and I both later became rather stodgy, I’m afraid. Still are, for that matter. He has informed me that he’ll be down this week to see to it that arrangements for the transfer of the necklace are proper. You will meet him Saturday night, I’m sure. Jasper Cabot and Mr. Willard Sergeant Blunt have been guarding the Stonehouse emeralds for almost fifty years; Willard insists upon personally overseeing their transfer to the Padishah. Good riddance of them, I say. I am no admirer of the Padishah of Sarofim, despicable man that he is, but there may be some justice in the emeralds going back to the place where oldJacob stole them originally.” She rose and went to her mantel. “If you really want to know something about Sarofim and the Rashads, you should probably have read this.” She brought back a book and handed it to me. There were also letters in her hand.
    I took the book. Free People, by Hamdi Safwat. The subject was Sarofim. The print was small, and there were no pictures. It seemed to be a combination of history and political theory. A very gray book. I didn’t know if I wanted to know that much about Sarofim or the Rashads.
    Amelia gave Zee the letters. “Mail these for me, will you, dear? Since they moved the post office out by the triangle, I have to drive through that traffic jam in front of the A & P in order to mail anything. I hate it. But you’re going by there anyway, so would you be a darling . . . ?”
    â€œAunt Amelia, I hope you’re getting something out of this necklace business,” said Zee.
    â€œSomething? Oh yes. Quite a lot, according to Willard Blunt. But not anything public. Transferred funds from the Padishah’s Swiss accounts to the Stonehouse Boston accounts. Frankly, I can use the money. Father was a sweet man who knew much about many things; unfortunately, money was not one of them. The same was true of my husband and is true of me as well. Happily, Willard Blunt managed to prevent Father from spending everything before he died, my sister married wealth, and Raymond and I never needed more than we had. What more could any of us have asked?”
    â€œIt sounds okay to me,” Zee said. “But now you’ll be well off for a change. I’m glad.”
    â€œAs am I. Willard Blunt sent me quarterly checks for forty years. A trust of some sort, set up by some Stonehouse who properly doubted that his children would be as shrewd as he was. That money helped Raymond and me stay afloat on farmers’ wages, but now it’s run out, so this new money is just fine. The emeralds mean nothing to me, and I’m only sorry that Raymond isn’there to enjoy the money