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“Of course. What did you think it was? Some subtle kind of pitch? Look, if I’ve made a mistake—you are the McCloud who bought a big chunk of NCI a few weeks ago?”
    She had begun to laugh; she returned to her chair, still laughing. He noticed for the first time a faint discoloration under the makeup on her cheek—a small bruise. He had never seen her before and had no comparison, but she looked as if she had a slight swelling on that side of her jaw—it showed when she laughed.
    Finally she said, “I’m sorry—really I am. I took you for a—for someone else. Please forgive me. Now, what was it you wanted to know about those stocks?”
    â€œYou did buy them?”
    â€œI suppose so. I’d have to go look it up.”
    He said, “Frankly, you don’t look that rich.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAre you in the habit of misplacing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
    She gave him a blank look. “Two hundred and fifty thousand?”
    He stood up. “I guess I’ve made a mistake, after all. I’m sorry.”
    â€œNo. Wait.” She pulled open a drawer of the end table by the settee, sifted through a small stack of papers, and put them back. When she turned her face toward him, her forehead was creased; she said, “No, it wasn’t a mistake.” She spread her hands with helpless mocking good humor. “You see how it is—sometimes I’m a little scatterbrained.”
    Scatterbrained? He shook his head; he said, “But you do remember buying the NCI shares.”
    â€œYes, I do. I’m very sorry if I confused you.” But her eyes were still mocking.
    â€œUh-hunh,” he muttered. “Can you remember why you bought them?”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œWhy pick that particular company to invest in? Why not spread the money around in several investments?”
    â€œI suppose someone must have recommended it to me.” She smiled.
    It was a blinding smile. He looked away; he closed his eyes and said, “Miss McCloud, we’re talking about a quarter of a million dollars.”
    â€œYes, I know that,” she said, as if she couldn’t understand what was upsetting him.
    â€œCan’t you at least remember who might have recommended the stock?”
    â€œA broker, I imagine. I really can’t recall.”
    He had seen that helpless-female role played enough times on the witness stand in court to know it well enough: the pretty, wide-eyed, innocent misunderstanding of every question. It didn’t fit quite right; she was too obviously intelligent to carry it off.
    He said, “You’re not under oath, you know—there’s no reason why you should tell me anything at all.”
    â€œI’m quite aware of that,” she said. “But I’m curious—why are you so interested in my investments?”
    â€œI guess you could just call it a routine check.”
    â€œSure,” she answered, matching his tone for casual evenness. But her smile was too knowing; it was no accident that after sidestepping his questions so adroitly she had deftly trapped him in his own evasiveness. It was a neat trick—so neat it made him shift his focus once again. His thinking jumped the straight track of his mind. He had built several hypotheses about her; none of them really fit. Clearly she wasn’t just a spoiled heiress, careless about her millions—she wasn’t flighty enough, her surroundings weren’t opulent enough, she didn’t have any air of class consciousness or liberal phoniness. She met him on equal terms, matching wits and subtleties. She was far too bright, and too relaxed, to be some rich married man’s penthouse plaything; and again, the surroundings didn’t fit in with that notion. An actress, perhaps? But if she was successful enough to be that rich, wouldn’t he have heard of her, recognized her face?