I wouldn’t need anything else. No bedroom. I’d sleep sitting up in one of the chairs, nodding off over a leather-bound Victorian novel. No kitchen, either. I’d pick up something at the deli around the corner. A bathroom would be handy, though I could make do with one down the hall if I had to, even as we were doing this weekend.

Give me that room, though, and I could be perfectly happy.

I said as much to Carolyn, said it in a whisper to avoid disturbing the older woman reading Trollope on the green velvet sofa or the intense dark-haired gentleman scribbling away at the leather-topped writing desk. She was not surprised.

“Of course you could,” she said. “This room’s gotta be twice the size of your whole apartment. Forget my little rathole. You could just about lose my apartment in that fireplace.”

“It’s not just the size.”

“It’s pretty nice,” she agreed. “And look at all those books. You think one of them’s the one you’re looking for?”

“One at the most.”

“That was my line, Bern. When Millie asked how many beds we’ve got in Aunt Augusta’s Room.”

“You figure she likes being called Millie?”

“She probably hates it,” she said, “but she’s not here, and anyway I’m whispering. Bernie, don’t look now, but that man is staring at me. See?”

“How can I see? You just said not to look.”

“Well, you can look now. He’s not doing it anymore.”

“Then why look if there’s nothing to see?” I looked anyway, at the fellow at the writing desk. He looked as though he’d stepped out of a Brontë novel and might at any moment step out of Cuttleford House as well, flinging his scarf around his neck and striding across the moors. Except that he wasn’t wearing a scarf, and there weren’t any moors in the neighborhood.

“I think he was just staring off into space,” I said. “Trying to think of le mot juste, and you happened to be where his eyes landed.”

“I suppose so. Incidentally, are you out of your mind?”

“Probably. What makes you ask?”

“I was just wondering what possessed you to tell little Princess Margaret that you’re a burglar.”

“Not Princess Margaret.”

“ Bern -”

“Lady Jane Grey,” I said. “Or Anne Boleyn.”

“Who cares? The point is-”

“I get the point.”

“So?”

“I almost slipped,” I said. “I almost let out what I really am.”

“What you really…”

“I almost said I was a bookseller.”

“But fortunately you caught yourself at the last minute and told her you were a burglar.”

“Right.”

“Am I missing something here?”

“Think about it,” I said.

She did, and after a long moment light dawned. “Oh,” she said.

“Right.”

“There’s a million books in the damn house,” she said, “and most of them are old, and some of them are sure to be rare. And if they knew there was a bookseller in their midst-”

“They’d be on guard,” I said. “At the very least.”

“Whereas knowing they’ve got a burglar on the premises gives them a nice cozy warm feeling.”

“I didn’t want to say ‘bookseller’,” I said, “and I had to do something quick, and I wanted to stay with the same initial.”

“Why? Monogrammed luggage?”

“My lips were already forming a B.”

“‘A butcher, a baker, a bindlestaff maker.’ All of them start with B, Bernie, and they all sound more innocent than ‘burglar.’”

“I know.”

“It’s a good thing her lips are sealed.”

“Yeah, right. She already told Mummy. But you don’t think Mummy believed it, do you?”

“She thought you were joking with the kid.”

“And so will anyone else she happens to tell. As far as that goes, do you really think Millicent thought I’d come here to steal the spoons? She assumed it was a gag and she was happy to go along with it. When anyone presses the point, I’ll let it be known that you and I work together at the Poodle Factory. What’s the matter?”

“ Bern, don’t take this the wrong way, but I never had a partner and I never will.”

“It’s just a story to let out, Carolyn.”

“I mean it’s not much, the Poodle Factory, but it’s mine, you know?”

“So I’m your employee. Is that better?”

“A little bit. The thing is, what do you know about washing dogs? I’m the last person to compare it to rocket science, but it’s like any other trade. There’s a lot of information involved, and if you should happen to come up against a pet owner who’s familiar with what goes on at a dog-grooming salon, it might blow your cover.”

“I’m just helping out,” I said. “I lost my job, and now I’m helping you at the salon while I wait for something to open up in my own field.”

“And what’s that, Bern?”

“I’ll think of something, okay?”

“Hey, don’t bite my head off, Bernie.”

“Sorry.”

“You know what’s funny?”

“Hardly anything.”

“ Bern -”

“What’s funny?”

“Well,” she said, “remember when you bought Barnegat Books from Mr. Litzauer? You were a big reader, and you always liked books, and you figured owning a bookstore would be a good front. You could pretend to be a bookseller while you went on breaking into houses.”

“So?”

“So now you’re pretending to be a burglar,” she said, “while you chase around after old books. Don’t you think that’s funny?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s a riot.”

From the library we went through another parlor, winding up in something called the Morning Room. Maybe it was situated to catch the morning sun, or maybe it was where you took your second cup of coffee after breakfast. (It wasn’t where you had breakfast. That’s what the Breakfast Room was for.)

In the Morning Room we met Gordon Wolpert, a fiftyish fellow dressed all in brown. He was a widower, we learned, and he was on the seventh day of a ten-day stay. “But I might extend it,” he said. “It’s a spectacular house, and the kitchen is really quite remarkable. Did you arrive in time for dinner? Well, then you know what I mean. I’m putting on weight, and I can’t honestly say I give a damn. Maybe I’ll have my clothes let out and become a permanent resident, like the colonel.”

“Colonel Buller-Blount? He lives here all the time?”

“Blount-Buller, actually. And I guess it’s not accurate to call him a permanent guest. He stays here half the year.”

“And spends the other half in England? I suppose it must have something to do with taxes.”

“It has everything to do with taxes, but he doesn’t spend a minute in England. He told me he hasn’t been there in years. Hates the place.”

“Really? He’s the most English person I ever met in my life.”

Wolpert grinned. “With the possible exception of young Millicent,” he said. “As a matter of fact, it’s his Englishness that makes him stay away. He can’t stand what’s become of the country. He says they’ve ruined it.”

“They?”

“A sort of generic ‘they,’ from the sound of it. He wants the England he remembers from boyhood, and he has to come here to Cuttleford House for it.”

Carolyn wanted to know where he spent the other six months.

“Six months and a day, actually. In Florida. That way he doesn’t have to pay any state income tax, and I think there are other tax savings as well.”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “A lot of New Yorkers do the same thing. Hey, wait a minute. Hasn’t he got it backwards?” She waved a hand at the window, on the other side of which the snow continued to fall. “It’s winter. What’s he doing up here?”

“The colonel reverses the usual order of things,” Wolpert said. “He comes north during the fall foliage season and heads south in April. That way the old boy is always paying the low off-season rates.”

“That’s the good news,” I said. “The bad news is he never gets decent weather.”

“That’s the whole point.”

“It is?”

“Remember, he’s looking to recapture the rapture. Winter here reminds him of happy boyhood hours on the moors, chasing the wily grouse or whatever you do on the moors. And Florida in the summer puts him in mind of his years in Her Majesty’s Service, most of which seem to have been spent in one tropical hellhole or another.”