And now he picked up his flashlight, moved toward the opening he’d made, bent low, and then disappeared into the hole.

Beyond lay a room. As Logan played his flashlight around it, he saw it had been a laboratory of some kind. There was a single worktable, surrounded by straight-backed chairs, on which sat a few old-fashioned pieces of equipment. A much larger device — waist-high and even more mysterious in appearance — sat in the middle of the floor.

The room was not large — perhaps twenty feet square — and was constructed of the same tasteful cast as the rest of Lux. An elegant fireplace was set into one wall. A few pictures in antique frames hung here and there, but they were not like the pictures seen elsewhere in the mansion: one frame held a Rorschach inkblot; another a painting by Goya. An old-fashioned percolator sat on a corner table. A vintage phonograph stood on a stand in one corner, with a large brass amplifying horn fixed to its top and a hand crank on one side. A stack of 78s in paper sleeves was set on the floor beneath it. Beyond the worktable was a stainless-steel dolly containing a row of what appeared to be medical instruments: forceps, curettes.

In the beam of his flashlight, Logan could see a metal bar fixed to one wall, from which hung bulky suits made of some heavy metal, perhaps lead, with fanlike joints at the elbows, wrists, and knees. Their helmets had faceplates into which thin grilles had been set. The bizarre uniforms looked like alien suits of armor.

He made out, above the wainscoting near his feet, an old-fashioned electrical socket. On a whim, he pulled a circuit tester from his duffel and plugged it in. A green light came on. Odd that this room should have electrical power, when the spaces he’d just passed through did not: perhaps Strachey’s crews shut off the power only to rooms they were actively demolishing.

Except for a pile of plaster chips and pieces of lath caused by Logan’s forced entry, the room was spotless. No dust had accumulated on any of the surfaces. It was like a time capsule, hermetically sealed.

Stranger still — and Logan only now became aware of this fact — was that the room had no apparent means of entry. He shone his flashlight carefully around the walls, but could see no breaks in the polished wood to indicate a doorway of any kind.

What kind of a room was this? And what on earth had it been used for?

Logan took a step forward, then stopped abruptly. Something — some sixth sense or instinct for self-preservation — warned him that he proceeded at his peril, that there was danger here. For a moment, he stood absolutely still. And then he began backing out; but slowly, quietly, as if not to disturb some slumbering thing. He bent down slightly, feeling his way through the hole he’d created. Then — replacing the tarp over the wall as carefully as he could — he made his way stealthily back through the ruins of the West Wing, flashlight licking over the broken surfaces as he went.

“My God,” Olafson said. He looked around, shocked surprise distorting his patrician features.

It was the following morning. Immediately after breakfast, Logan had tracked down the director and brought him here, making the laborious journey through the West Wing’s unfinished litter of construction, down lateral corridor A, beneath the tarp, and through his rudely constructed entrance into the secret room.

“So you had no idea this place existed,” Logan said.

“No.”

“Or what it might possibly have been used for. Or why it was kept secret.”

Olafson shook his head. “If this didn’t appear to be some kind of laboratory, I’d have guessed it predated Lux’s ownership. The original builder, you know, was famously eccentric.”

Logan nodded slowly. Hard as it was to believe, it appeared that — for many decades — Lux academics and scientists had worked and studied and experimented here in the West Wing…never knowing that, all the time, a secret room had lain hidden in their midst.

“Good lord,” Olafson said, following the beam of Logan’s flashlight as it settled on the heavy, armorlike metal suits that hung from the projecting bar in one corner. “What on earth could have gone on in here?”

“You’re the director,” Logan said. “I realize there’s not much to go on. But does anything you see here suggest projects that may have been undertaken during Lux’s early years at Dark Gables?”

Olafson thought a moment. Then he shook his head. “No.” He hesitated. “I don’t see any door. How did you find this room, exactly?

“That tarp had been carefully nailed over the exposed lath, along with this.” Logan reached outside, picked up the scrawled sign that read HAZARDOUS AREA — OFF-LIMITS. “I noticed a fist-sized hole in the lath, recently plugged with plaster. It aroused my curiosity. So I investigated.”

“And you said Strachey had just sent the workmen away,” Olafson murmured. He looked around again. “Do you suppose he was the one who made that hole, discovered this room?”

“He’d be an obvious choice. But then, why seal it up again, send the workers away on a pretext?” Logan pointed to the sign. “Does this look like his handwriting?”

“Impossible to say, given the block letters.”

“Want to hear something else interesting? I tried contacting the general contractor. William Rideout, based in Westerly. All I got was an answering service. It seemed that Mr. Rideout has abruptly retired, and is currently traveling, exact location unknown.”

Olafson took this in. He seemed about to speak, but then he simply shook his head.

Logan let the sign slip to the floor. “Who here could tell me more about the West Wing?”

“Ironically, Strachey would have been your man. He’s been living and breathing the place for the last six months.” Olafson paused, as if considering something. “Look here. We’d better not tell anybody about this place — at least, not until we have a better idea of what its purpose was and why it was boarded up.”

“And I’m going to examine the original blueprints in Strachey’s office. I’d like to see how this room relates to its surroundings — and figure out if the West Wing houses any other secrets we should know about.” Logan glanced at the director. “There’s something else. At dinner the other night, Roger Carbon told me that I should be asking about ‘the others.’ ”

“The others,” Olafson repeated slowly.

“I mentioned it to Perry Maynard, but he sidestepped the question.”

A frown crossed Olafson’s face. “Carbon is a brilliant psychologist, but he can be rather a divisive influence.” He hesitated. “Before Strachey’s death, there were a few reports of…ah…rather odd incidents involving some other residents here at Lux.”

“Odd how?”

“Nothing all that alarming. Certainly nothing anywhere near what happened to Will. Hearing voices, seeing things that weren’t there.”

Nothing all that alarming. “When was this, exactly?”

Olafson thought for a moment. “A month ago, maybe. Six weeks, at most.”

“And it went on for how long?”

“A week or two.”

“How many were affected?”

“A handful. We didn’t think there was a connection. And we didn’t want you to start barking up the wrong tree.”

“Can you get me a list of names of the affected personnel?”

Olafson frowned. “Now, Jeremy, I really don’t think—”

“I can’t afford to ignore any leads. And this sounds like a lead to me.”

“But…well, I doubt those involved would want others to know.”

“Carbon knew.”

Olafson hesitated again. “And I’m sure they’d be disinclined to talk about it. It’s…I imagine it’s a little embarrassing.”

“I’ve had plenty of experience dealing with embarrassing experiences. I’ll let them know they can rely on my utmost discretion.” When Olafson didn’t reply, Logan continued. “Look, Gregory. You brought me here. You can’t ask me to open an investigation and then tie my hands.”