She suddenly realized that — thanks to her absorption in the sketch and the Birth of the Cool CD playing in the background — she hadn’t noticed the doorbell ringing. Straightening up, she left her office, went down the passage beyond, through the parlor of the rambling old house, and into the front hall. She opened the door only to look into the gray eyes of a tall man with light brown hair, who, judging by his face, was perhaps forty years old. It was a nice face, she thought: reflective, with sculpted cheekbones and the faintest hint of a cleft in the chin, the skin smooth in the rays of the late morning sun. It looked vaguely familiar, somehow.

“Ms. Flood?” the man said, handing her a business card. “My name is Jeremy Logan. I wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time.”

Pamela glanced at the card. It read merely DR. JEREMY LOGAN, DEPT. OF HISTORY, YALE UNIVERSITY. The man didn’t look all that much like a history professor. He was a little too tanned, with a slender but athletic build, and he was wearing a bespoke suit instead of the usual hairy tweeds. Was this a potential client? And then she realized she was leaving him standing on the doorstep.

“I’m so sorry. Please come in.” And she ushered him into the parlor.

“This is a very attractive house,” he said as they sat down. “Did your great-grandfather design it?”

“As a matter of fact, he did.”

“The Victorian lines are refreshingly unique among so much Colonial and Italianate architecture here in Newport.”

“Are you a student of architecture, Dr. Logan?”

“To quote a line from an old movie, ‘I don’t know a lot about anything, but I know a little about practically everything.’ ” And the man smiled.

“You must know a lot about history, at any rate.”

“The problem with history, Ms. Flood, is that it keeps on happening whether you want it to or not. At least a Shakespeare scholar, say, can go about his or her work fairly confident that new plays aren’t going to turn up.”

Pamela laughed. The man might be charming, but she had a condominium to design. The initial plans were due to be submitted in just two weeks. “How can I help you, Dr. Logan?”

The man crossed one knee over the other. “As it happens, I’m here about your great-grandfather. His name was Maurice Flood, right? An architect like yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“And, among other grand residences, he designed the Delaveaux mansion in the mid-1880s. The mansion that came to be known as Dark Gables.”

At this, the slightest tickle of alarm coursed through Pamela. She did not reply.

“Now, of course, home to Lux.”

“Are you in residence at Lux, Dr. Logan?” Pamela asked guardedly.

“Just temporarily.”

“And what is it you want, exactly?”

Logan cleared his throat. “Since your great-grandfather was the architect of the mansion, and since this house was his office and residence — as, I believe, it is now yours — I was curious as to whether the original plans for the structure were still at hand.”

So that was it. She looked at the man with sudden suspicion. “And what would your interest in the plans be?”

“I’d like to examine them.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t go into specifics, but I can assure you that—”

Pamela stood up so suddenly that the man stopped in midsentence.

“I’m sorry, but the plans aren’t available.”

“Is there some way in which they could be secured? I’d be happy to wait—”

“No, there is no way. And now, I’d appreciate it if you would leave.”

Dr. Logan looked at her curiously. He stood up slowly. “Ms. Flood, I know you were involved in—”

“I’m very busy, Dr. Logan. Leave. Please.”

The man continued to look at her for a moment. Then he nodded his thanks, turned, and walked through the front hall and out the door without another word.

It was just past four in the afternoon as Logan walked along the long fourth-floor corridor of the Lux mansion. Midway down, he turned toward two glass-paned doors that opened onto a lavishly appointed parlor. He stepped inside and glanced around. An elaborate tea service had been set out on a linen-covered table: rows of china cups, a tray of wheatmeal biscuits, a large stainless-steel urn full of tea. The tea was invariably Darjeeling, and the parlor was invariably empty; at this point in the afternoon, all the denizens of Lux were fully absorbed in their respective scholarly pursuits, or at least pretending to be, and too busy to stop for tea. And yet it was still laid out, day after day, year after year, too ingrained a tradition to be changed.

Logan slid a few sheets of folded paper from his jacket pocket — the list Olafson had provided for him — and reviewed it briefly. Currently, Lux had eighty-two scholars in residence; seventy assistants to support them; an administrative staff of fifty-four; and an additional thirty cooks, guards, groundskeepers, dogsbodies, and assorted others who kept the place running. Out of this roughly two hundred and forty people, Olafson’s list numbered five.

Logan reread the single-paragraph dossier of person number three: Dr. Terence McCarty. Then, replacing the list in his pocket, he looked around the room. The wall opposite the double doors was covered by a series of richly brocaded curtains. He approached the curtains, then followed them to the far corner of the room. A door was set into the wall here, small and almost hidden behind the last curtain. Opening the door revealed a narrow, dark passageway. Logan walked down this to a second door, which he opened in turn.

It led to a revelation: a sprawling rooftop terrace ending in a balustrade of worn marble. Beyond were magnificent views of Lux’s lawns and gardens, and, beyond that, the perpetually furious sea, hurling itself endlessly against the rocky beach. The mansion fell away on both sides, leading at last to the long, dependent wings, east and west, that pointed toward the coast.

A series of round glass tables and wrought-iron deck chairs were arrayed across the faded brick. Only one of the chairs was occupied: a man in a brown suit, with a shock of black hair and piercing blue eyes, sat in it, staring back at Logan, a wary expression on his face.

Logan took another moment to admire the view. Then he walked over and took a seat beside the man.

“You’re Dr. McCarty?” he asked.

“Call me Terence.”

“I had no idea this place existed.”

“No one does. That’s why I suggested it.” The man frowned briefly. “I know who you are, Dr. Logan. As you might guess, I’m not especially keen on this meeting. But Gregory pressed me to agree. He said it was for the good of Lux. When he put it like that, what was I to say?” And he shrugged.

“Let me set you at ease, then,” Logan replied. “I’m looking into the details of Will Strachey’s death. Before it took place, a few other residents of Lux reported — shall we say — some anomalous occurrences. I’m not going to tell you who they were, or what they experienced, just as I wouldn’t tell any of them about you. What you tell me will be kept in strictest confidence. It won’t be published, it won’t be repeated. If, as you say, you know who I am, then you can appreciate that my job entails a great deal of discretion. The details of what you tell me won’t go beyond these rather beautiful surroundings.”

As Logan spoke, the man named McCarty continued to eye him closely, the look of wariness slowly easing. When Logan fell silent, McCarty nodded. “Very well. Ask what you want.”

“First, I’d like to know a little more about what you’re doing here at Lux.”

“I’m a linguist.”

“I’m told it’s an interesting profession.”

When McCarty added nothing more, Logan said: “Can you be more specific?”

“What does my work have to do with our conversation?”

“It may be useful.”