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“Harriet—I’m desperate.” The baby-faced sweetness of his expression destroyed any force that might have existed behind the word. “I need your help. I have to find Jane. You have to tell me where she is. It’s important. Terribly important. More than you can possibly realize.”
    â€œLook, Peter,” said Harriet, smothering another yawn, “if I knew where Jane was I would probably tell you. If only to get you out of here, so I could go back to bed. But I don’t. I haven’t laid eyes on Jane Sinclair in almost two years. For reasons that I won’t bother explaining to you, we haven’t been in constant correspondence, either. Do you believe me? If you think she’s here, hiding in the darkroom or something, you’re welcome to look around. Why would she be hiding from you, by the way?”
    â€œShe isn’t, Harriet, that’s just it. We were supposed to meet in Toronto. She’s left Guy, you know. And we took separate flights in case it looked like—”
    â€œâ€”you were running away together? Are you?”
    â€œSort of,” he said with hesitation. “Guy was terrible to her, you know. The things he did— You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” He spoke mechanically, like someone repeating a lesson learned by rote and recited too often. “I was shocked. Anyway, I was staying with them—they’d borrowed this wonderful big apartment in Chelsea—”
    â€œHow handy,” said Harriet, with a great deal of irritation. In spite of her incredulity at the unlikelihood of the thing, she was drearily certain what he was about to say. She had no interest in Peter Bellingham’s sex life, real or imaginary, and she resented having to listen to cozy confidences in her sleeping time.
    â€œWell, he should have expected it,” said Peter defensively. “After the way he treated her. What else did he think she was going to do?”
    â€œAnd then he caught you at it,” said Harriet, cutting short his bravura performance, and adding, with deliberate crudeness, “Bare-assed and toes up between the sheets? That must have been quite a scene.”
    â€œWell—he didn’t exactly catch us,” said Peter, sulkily, turning pink, “but he was getting suspicious and Jane decided she’d better leave.”
    â€œAnd you were supposed to meet her here?” Every syllable quivered with disbelief. “In my apartment?” The trouble with his story was that it was just peculiar enough to be true.
    â€œYes. She gave me a key to let myself in. In case you were out.”
    Harriet was torn between annoyance and amusement. “How very thoughtful of her,” she said finally. She really must use the chain and change the lock.
    â€œI’m sorry about that,” he mumbled. “It was a bit much, I suppose. But we didn’t have time to make arrangements and Guy is ready to kill her, he’s so jealous. He really will, you know—I mean literally kill her—if he finds out where she is. So I have to find her first.”
    â€œYou don’t have to worry about Guy knowing where she is. He doesn’t. He tried to find out from me.” Involuntarily, Harriet’s hand went up to her bruised cheekbone. “And I didn’t tell him, partly because I didn’t know, but mostly because I wouldn’t give him directions down to the lake if he was dying of thirst.” She stopped for a moment to consider how much she should say to this self-described hopeful lover. “Okay—I did get a letter from Jane, but it didn’t have anything in it you don’t know already. She mentioned coming here, but I haven’t heard from her. That’s it. I’ve told you everything I know. And now I would appreciate my key back and my place to myself. I’ve had a rough day.” Harriet walked over and unplugged the kettle.
    Spring had clouded over and