He had gotten away with it again.

Amanda got out of the Mercedes and looked approvingly up and down the tree-lined block. The nineteenth-century development known as Turtle Bay comprised three sides of a city block between Second and Third Avenues in the Forties; all the houses opened to the rear on a common garden. She knew half a dozen people with houses on the block and recognized it for the highly desirable place to live that it was.

She climbed the steps of the brownstone and rang the bell. The door was answered almost immediately by a Mediterranean-looking woman. Amanda followed her through an entrance hall and a formal drawing room into a book-lined study at the rear of the house, with a bay window overlooking the gardens.

“Will you please be comfortable for a moment,” the woman said. She spoke with a rather heavy accent. “Mr. Barrington will be with you quick.”

“Thank you,” Amanda said, taking one of a pair of leather wing chairs before the window.

“I’ll get some tea,” the woman replied, then left.

Amanda stood up and had a look around the room. It contained a great deal of original oak paneling, in addition to the bookcases, and there was an antique Persian rug on the floor, with old-fashioned parquet showing around its edges. A leather-topped walnut desk occupied a corner, and there were a number of silver-framed photographs on a shelf beside the desk, of people Amanda assumed to be Barrington ’s father and mother. On the wall behind the desk were three good-sized oils, all New York scenes, that Amanda would have bought on the spot. They were, she realized, all by Matilda Stone, who, she knew, had died fairly young and had left only around fifty canvases, all in private hands. She wondered what these three might be worth.

Stone Barrington finished his phone call and hung up. “ Alma,” he called to his secretary, “I’m going upstairs to meet my four o’clock; hold all my calls.”

“Right, Stone,” Alma called back from her adjacent office.

Stone climbed the spiral staircase that led to the rear hall of the first floor of the house and entered his study. A tall, handsome, beautifully dressed and coiffed woman, who appeared to be in her early forties, stood before his desk, looking at his mother’s paintings. “Good afternoon,” he said.

She did not turn around immediately, but went on looking at the paintings. “I don’t suppose I’ve seen more than a dozen of her pictures in my whole life,” she said, “but I’ve loved every one of them.”

“Thank you; she’d be pleased to have the compliment.”

She turned and walked toward him, holding out her hand. “I’m Amanda Dart.”

He took her hand. “I’m Stone Barrington; won’t you sit down?”

They each took a wing chair and, as if on cue, the servant appeared with a silver tray containing a matching teapot, two cups and saucers, and a plate with several slices of pound cake and some cookies.

“This is my housekeeper, Helene,” Stone said. “She makes the best pound cake on the Eastern Seaboard.”

“In the Western Hemisphere,” Helene said blithely.

“Helene is Greek; humility does not come easily to her.”

“And what would I have to be humble about?” Helene asked. “You bet not my pound cake.”

Amanda smiled appreciatively. She wanted the strange woman to be gone. “Tell me about this house,” she said, so they’d have something to talk about while Helene poured. Anyway, she was interested.

“Of course. It was built in the eighteen-nineties by the father of my great-aunt on my father’s side. I suppose that makes him my great-grandfather? The architect was a man named Ehrick Rossiter, who worked from the eighteen-seventies through the nineteen-thirties.”

“He had an eye for proportion,” Amanda said, looking around the room.

“Yes, and he filled the house with interesting detail. I’ll give you the tour someday, when you have the time.”

“Thank you, I’d love that, but not today. Did you choose the furnishings?”

“About half of them, I suppose. The rest came down from family or were in the house when my great-aunt left it to me.”

“You’re very fortunate in your family’s tastes.”

“I am.”

“Has Bill Eggers told you why I’m here?”

“No, he said he’d let you explain everything.”

Amanda opened her alligator bag and handed him the scandal sheet. “Recently, I had a weekend in Saint Bart’s; the day of my return this was sent to at least several dozen fax machines around the city – perhaps farther abroad, who knows?” She waited while Stone read it.

“Where were these photographs taken?” he asked.

“At a hotel in Manhattan.”

“What is it that you’d like me to do for you, Ms. Dart?”

“I want you to find out who produced this… document,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I want to know, of course.”

“Why do you want to know?”

She looked at him blankly. “Because when someone is publicly telling gratuitous lies about me I want to know who it is.”

“I see.” Stone looked at the photographs carefully. “Ms. Dart,” he said, “are you saying this isn’t you in the photograph?”

“Of course that’s what I’m saying,” she replied.

“Ms. Dart, I am principally a lawyer, and when I am representing someone it is essential that I know everything there is to know about the situation in question.”

“I don’t want to hire you as a lawyer, but as an investigator.”

“There is little difference from my point of view. You see, if a client withholds information from me, I tend to spend too much of my time trying to find out why he is doing so. It would be much less expensive for you to save me that trouble. I expect Bill Eggers told you that I used to be a police detective.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Well, old habits die hard; I can usually tell when a person is lying to me.”

“Oh, all right, it was… I was…” She seemed unable to go on.

Stone looked at the photographs again. “And I believe I recognize the front door of the Trent in the background. You are not the first of my clients who has made use of it. After all, it’s the best, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, “it’s the best.”

“As a lawyer, Ms. Dart, I am ethically bound to respect my clients’ confidences; and if I have your confidence I will be better able to help you.”

Her shoulders sagged slightly, then she recomposed herself. “All right, the statements in the sheet are accurate; I wasn’t in Saint Bart’s, I was at the Trent, with a friend.”

“Thank you for your candor. Now, why do you want to know who circulated this sheet?”

“Mr. Barrington, until very recently I was in negotiations for a new contract with my newspaper and their news syndicate. The fax arrived at a very awkward time, so much that I had to accelerate the negotiations, and at very great risk to my career.”

“How did the negotiations go?”

“I got exactly what I wanted.”

“Did your newspaper see this sheet before you reached agreement?”

“I very much doubt it; I moved too quickly for that.”

“So you are safe on that count, for the moment.”

“For the next four years. However, revelations of the sort in that sheet tend to undercut my credibility, and credibility is the basis of my success in my work.”

“I understand. So you would like me to try and stop this person or persons from doing this again?”

“No. You find out who it is, and I’ll do the stopping, believe me.”

“That sounds rather ominous, Ms. Dart. I hope you aren’t thinking of doing anything foolish.”

“I am not a foolish person, Mr. Barrington, I assure you.” She suddenly smiled. “And I would be pleased if you would call me Amanda.”

“Of course; please call me Stone.”

“Will you assist me in this matter, Stone?”

“If I may be sure of your continued full cooperation.”