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someone to look for the man who chased you.”
    I let out a sigh. “I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me.” I could tell from her expression that Anne didn’t believe me, either. “But it was not just my imagination. There was someone chasing me.”
    Outside our room stood a table that held candles. I lit one and opened the door. Cool air rushed outward; the candle flame wavered. Entering the room, Anne and I both exclaimed in shock. Our trunk lay open, our belongings strewn about, and the dresser drawers were open. The covers had been flung off the bed, and the mattress dragged off the frame. Broken glass littered the floor under the window, where a jagged hole gaped. The curtains stirred in the breeze.

7

    S OMETIMES A DOOR TO THE FUTURE SEEMS TO OPEN, AND BEYOND THIS portal you can see a radiant blue sky, gardens blooming with flowers, and glorious sunshine. But when you draw nearer, the door is discovered to be an impenetrable wall with a bright, false vista painted upon it by your own folly. That is what happened to me the day after the opera.
    Sunday afternoon lay like a golden mantle upon London. The Thames sparkled beneath a sky miraculously cleared by a freshening breeze; the city’s spires, domes, and towers glittered. Church bells tolled across the rooftops of Bayswater, a respectable suburb. Its terraced Regency-era houses basked in the sunshine, their white stucco façades and black wrought-iron fences gleaming. Children rolled hoops, and nurses wheeled perambulators under leafy trees in the square near Westbourne Place, where George Smith resided.
    He and I sat in his dining room with Anne, his mother, and his sisters. The house was splendid, with Turkey carpets, polished mahogany furniture, white table linens, and fine crystal, silver, and china. Flowers masked the odor of cesspits that permeates even the best homes of London. Yet Anne and I were so bashful that we could only pick at our portions of roasted joint. Neither of us contributed much to the conversation until I described my experience at the opera and what we had found upon returning to the Chapter Coffee House.
    The company expressed shock and sympathy. George Smith said, “You didn’t spend the night in your room after it was ransacked, I hope?”
    “No,” I said. “The proprietor of the inn was kind enough to give us other accommodations.”
    “Do I correctly understand that you believe the two incidents and the murder may be related?”
    “The proprietor said a common thief must have climbed onto the roof and broken into our room. But I doubt that a murder, a chase in the theatre, and a burglary all on the same day of my life are mere coincidence.”
    “Was anything taken?” inquired Mrs. Smith. She was a handsome, portly woman with rich brunette hair. She had not been told the true connection between her son and his guests, and she eyed me with curiosity.
    “No, madam,” Anne murmured.
    George Smith frowned, one hand clasping his chin while the other toyed with his glass. “Whether or not these experiences are connected and someone wishes you harm, I do not like this disturbance to your peace of mind.”
    Gratified by his concern, I expected him to reiterate his invitation for Anne and me to stay with him. Instead he said, “Perhaps you should return home immediately.” His solicitude seemed as genuine as ever; yet I felt dismay at the suggestion that he wished me to leave.
    “Last night you indicated that you would speak to the commissioner of police about investigating Isabel White’s murder,” I said. “Should I not remain available in case I am needed?”
    “I shall go to the commissioner as I promised,” said George Smith, “but should it be necessary for the police to communicate with you, a letter will surely suffice.”
    Mrs. Smith seconded this opinion; Anne nodded. I beheld my publisher with increasing perplexity. Yesterday he had seemed an ally in my quest for the truth about Isabel White; but now he