The rain fell with the dreary persistence of a widow's tears. Sonia Bonneval stared through the silver streams that poured from the barrel-tile roof, splattering over the tough leaves of a palmetto and into the courtyard below, joining the small river that swirled along the open stone drain leading to the porte cochere. The droplets slanting down made a copper haze around the pitch-pine torch at that dark, tunnellike entrance to the courtyard. From her concealment behind a tangle of wisteria growing up the gallery post of the garçonnière, Sonia searched the opening. At any moment, her father's secret visitor would appear from the blackness like some demon from Hades. Just moments ago, the dangling bell beside the wicket gate had rung its summons. Eugene, her father's majordomo, spare, precise in his movements and with features older than his thirty years, descended the outside staircase in answer. She could hear him speaking now in deferential greeting, hear a deep voice in response that resonated with strength and purpose. The footsteps of the pair grated on the stone paving, one set a shuffle in slippers designed for quiet, the other a steady, booted stride.

Shadows shifted in the dim mouth of the entrance. They elongated as the two men passed the flaring torchlight and emerged under the arcade that edged the courtyard.

Sonia drew a sharp, silent breath of alarm.

The newcomer was enormous, an impression increased by the long, caped greatcoat that billowed around his ankles. Raindrops glistened upon wool-clad shoulders so wide they seemed to fill the archway. His bell-crowned beaver hat came close to scraping the brick ceiling, and he wore it set straight across his f