'Yes, I am.'

'Is it possible you might be able to have Nancy reveal not only what she knows of this morning's events – which I suspect will be nothing – but also information about the past that she doesn't even know she has herself?'

'It's possible.'

"Then unless she can tell us something tangible about Michael and Missy's whereabouts, I beg you to try.'

When Dorothy was readmitted to the house an hour later, the family room and kitchen were deserted except for Bernie Miles, the policeman charged with answering the phones. 'They're all in there,' he said, jerking his head towards the front parlour. 'Something pretty queer going on.'

Dorothy hurried down the hall, but stopped at the doorway of the room. The greeting she was about to utter died on her lips as she took in the scene before her.

Nancy was lying on the couch, a pillow under a head, a quilt tucked around her. A stranger who looked like a doctor was sitting beside her, speaking softly. Nancy 's eyes were closed. An anguished-looking Ray and grim-faced Jonathan were side by side on the love seat. Jed Coffin was sitting at a table behind the couch, holding a microphone pointed towards Nancy.

As Dorothy realized what was happening, she sank into a chair, not bothering to take off her coat. Numbly she slipped her chilled fingers into the deep side pockets, unconsciously gripping the scrap of damp, fuzzy wool that she felt in the right-hand pocket.

'How do you feel, Nancy? Are you comfortable?' Lendon's voice was tranquil.

'I'm afraid…'

'Why?'

'The children… the children…'

' Nancy. Let's talk about this morning. Did you sleep well last night? When you woke up did you feel rested?'

Nancy 's voice was reflective. 'I dreamed. I dreamed a lot…'

'What did you dream about?'

'Peter and Lisa… They'd be so grown up… They're dead seven years…" She began to sob. Then, as Jonathan's iron grip held Ray back, she cried, 'How could I have killed them? They were my children! How could I have killed them…?'

Before Dorothy had met John Kragopoulos at the office, she had tried to camouflage her red-rimmed eyes with a dusting of powder. She'd tried to convince herself that after all, showing the Hunt place would be an outlet, an action that could be concentrated on for a little while and keep her mind from its endless squirreling for clues to the children's whereabouts. What clues?

Normally she took prospective clients on a brief tour of the area before showing a property, to let them see the beaches and lakes and marina; the stately old homes that were scattered between Cranberry Highway and the bay; the breathtaking views from Maushop Tower; the old town landmarks.

But today, with the sleet beating a sharp tattoo on the car roof and windows, with the sky filled with black fields of clouds and with the cold sea air chilling the very marrow of the bones, she headed directly for The Lookout.

It was so hard to keep her mind on what she was doing. She felt so distracted and shaken. She who hadn't cried in years was having to bite her lips to keep tears back. There was a crushing weight on her shoulders, a weight of grief and fear that she could not hope to support alone.

As she drove the car along the treacherously slick road, she stole an occasional glance at the swarthy-complexioned man beside her. John Kragopoulos was somewhere in his mid-forties. He had the build of a weight-lifter, yet there was an innate courtliness in his bearing that complemented his slightly accented manner of speaking.

He told Dorothy that he and his wife just sold their restaurant in New York and agreed their next venture would be in an area where they would want to settle permanently. They were anxious to be where well-to-do retired people could be found for winter business, as well as the summer-resort trade.

Mentally reviewing these points, Dorothy said, 'I'd never recommend investing in a restaurant over on the other side of the Cape any more; it's just one mass of motels and pizza parlours now – absolutely frightful zoning – but this side of the Cape is still lovely. The Lookout has unlimited possibilities as a restaurant and inn. During the thirties it was renovated extensively and turned into a country club. People didn't have money to join expensive country clubs at that time, and so it never caught on. Eventually Mr Hunt bought the house and grounds – nine acres in all, including one thousand feet of waterfront property and one of the finest views on the Cape.'

'The Lookout was originally a captain's house, was it not?'

Dorothy realized that John Kragopoulos had done some homework on the place – a sure sign of real interest. 'Yes, it was,' she agreed. 'It was built by a whaling captain in the sixteen-nineties as a gift for his bride. The most recent renovation, forty years ago, added two floors, but the original roof was put back on, including one of those charming little balconies near the peak of the chimney – widow's walks they're called, because so many of the captains' wives used to watch in vain for their men to come back from a voyage.'

'The sea can be treacherous,' her passenger agreed. 'By the way, is there a dock with the property? If I relocate up here, I plan to buy a boat.'

'A very good one,' Dorothy assured him. 'Oh, dear!' She gasped as the car skidded dangerously when she turned on to the narrow winding road that led up to The Lookout. She managed to straighten the wheels and glanced anxiously at her passenger. But he seemed unperturbed, and remarked mildly that she was a brave lady to risk driving on such icy roads.

Like a surgeon's knife the words penetrated to the core of Dorothy's misery. It was a frightful day. It would be a miracle if the car didn't skid right off this narrow road. Whatever interest she had talked herself into about showing the house vanished. If the weather were only decent, the beaches and streets and woods would be filled with men and boys looking for Missy and Michael; but in this weather only the heartiest would think of going out -especially since many felt it was a useless search.

'I don't mind driving,' she said thickly; 'I'm just sorry Mr Eldredge isn't with us. But I'm sure you understand.'

'I understand very well,' John Kragopoulos said. 'What an agonizing experience for the parents to have young children missing! I am only sorry to take your time today. As a friend and co-worker, you must be concerned.'

Determinedly, Dorothy did not let herself reply to the sympathy in the man's voice and manner. 'Let me tell you more about the house,' she said. 'All the windows to the front look over the water. The front door has an exquisite fanlight, which was a feature on the finer houses of that period. The large downstairs rooms have wonderful gable-end fireplaces. On a day like this many people would enjoy going to a restaurant where they can watch the storm while they enjoy a good drink and good food and a warm fire. Here we are.'

They rounded the curve, and The Lookout was in full view. To Dorothy it seemed strangely bleak and dreary as it loomed against the shrouded embankment. The weather-beaten shingles were stark grey. The sleet slapping against the windows and porches seemed to reveal mercilessly the peeling shutters and sagging outside steps.

She was surprised to see that Mr Parrish had left the garage doors open. Maybe he had been carrying groceries his last trip in and had forgotten to come out again to pull the door down. But it was a break for them. She'd drive right into the roomy garage and park her car beside his station wagon, and they'd be able to make a run for the house with some protection from the garage overhang.

'I've got a key to the back door,' she told John Kragopoulos after they'd got out of the car. 'I'm so sorry I didn't think to bring Ray's golf umbrella. I hope you don't get too wet.'