Gene stood there stubbornly. "Will you please just tell her I'm here?"
    Again, Mathieu waved his hands. No, monsieur, I won't.
    "Well, how about Mrs. Semple. Can I see her?"
    No-and a flapping gesture that obviously meant go away.
    "Mathieu," said Gene insistently, "will you try to understand? I don't mean Lorie any 
harm. I'm not a Casanova. I just want to say hello and ask her out for dinner."
    No. Go away.
    "Look," said Gene. "Let's be sensible about this, huh?" He took out his wallet, and 
produced a ten-dollar bill, which he folded between his fingers and poked through the 
gates. "Will you just let me in?"
    Mathieu stared at the bill with icy, relentless eyes. Then he looked back at Gene, 
and there was such intense contempt on his face that Gene withdrew the bill and tucked it 
hastily and untidily back in his wallet. At that particular moment, he was extremely glad 
that there was half a ton of iron gate in between him and this mute kravmaga freak.
    "All right," Gene said. "If I can't persuade you, I can't persuade you. But will you 
just take a message? Will you tell Lorie to call me? Please?"
    Mathieu looked at him coldly for a few more moments and then turned around and walked 
back to his golf cart. With a high-pitched whine, he trundled off again down the drive 
and disappeared from sight behind the trees. Gene leaned against the gates and sighed.
    He was about to return to his car when he thought he saw something in the distance, 
almost hidden by the long grass. He screwed up his eyes, and for one fleeting second he 
saw Lorie, walking slowly among the trees with a big dog on a leash. She was wearing blue 
slacks and a billowing white blouse, her tawny hair brushed, back and floating in the 
wind.
    Gene yelled, "Lorie! Lorie!" But she was too far away and before he could shout again 
she was gone.
    He went back and sat in his New Yorker, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel 
and wondering what to do next. He didn't fancy trying to break into the Semple estate in 
broad daylight. Nor did it help ringing the visitor's bell. All he could do now was to 
wait for the morning, when Maggie would hopefully have the telephone number. Then perhaps 
he could get past the impassive Mathieu and talk to Lorie herself, or at least her mother.
    He drove back to the city, feeling disappointed, but increasingly determined. If ever 
he'd faced an up-and-up challenge, this was it, and no matter what it took, he was damned 
if he wasn't going to lick it.
    Monday morning was bright, with a slight snap of winter in the air, and Gene wore his 
overcoat to work. He reached his office early, just before eight, but Maggie was even 
earlier. She was sitting at her desk with a plastic cup of coffee, smoking a cigarette 
and hanging on the phone.
    Gene hung up his coat. "Who is it?" he mouthed. "Anyone I shouldn't talk to?,'"
    Maggie put her hand over the receiver. "It's my secret Monday-morning lover. Keep 
your mouth shut, or he'll hear you."
    Gene went to his desk and flipped quickly through iiis stack of mail. There was a 
whole pile of letters from the West Indies, and some irritating enquiries about subsidy 
policy in parts of Central America. Even if he got down to it straight away, this 
particular bundle was going to take him most of the morning to answer, and he still had 
to finish a report on .West Indian internal affairs. He tapped a True out its pack and 
lit up.
    Maggie was saying: "Uh-huh. Okay, I gotcha. Thanks, Marvin. I owe you one." Then she 
put the phone down and came across to Gene with a self-satisfied smile. She was wearing a 
neat rust-colored suit today, and not for the first time he realized just how pretty she 
really was.
    "Well?" he asked, frowning over a six-page letter on sugar production. "You look like 
the cat who cornered the cream market."
    "And why shouldn't I? You asked the impossible, o boss, and the impossible has been 
accomplished."
    She tore a page from her shorthand pad and put it down in front of him. On it was 
written First Bank of Franco-Africa, 1214 K Street, and under that was a telephone number.
    He picked it up. "What's this? Something to do with Lorie Semple?"
    "Only her telephone number," said Maggie smugly. "And only the address of the bank 
where she works."-Gene raised an eyebrow. "She works? You mean she doesn't spend her 
whole life shut up in that house at. Merriam?"
    "Of course not. Why should she do that?"
    "I don't know," said Gene. "The way that place is guarded, it seems like they lock 
themselves in there and never come out."
    Maggie stubbed her cigarette out. "That's a typical chauvinist attitude. If they 
won't swoon at your feet and beg you to take them to bed, they must be living some kind 
of mysterious existence locked up in a weird old house. I mean, it's the only 
explanation."
    "You didn't see the size- of those goddamn guard dogs. They were this big."
    "They were probably friendly St. Bernards coming to rescue you. If you hadn't 
panicked, they might even have given you a tot of brandy."
    Gene checked his watch. If he took a cab, he might get up to the Franco-African Bank 
before it opened, which meant that he could catch Lorie in the street. "Listen, Maggie," 
he said. "I'm going out. I won't be long. If Walter calls, or if Mark starts sniffing 
around, just say that I'm out on an urgent diplomatic call. I'll be back in half an hour."
    "Gene," said Maggie, warningly. "Don't let this business go to your head. If the lady 
really doesn't want to know you, don't go making a fool of yourself."
    "Maggie," he said, shucking on his coat, "did I ever make a fool of myself?"
    "Only once," she said tartly, and went back to her desk.
    He stepped out into the street and hailed a cab. The driver was a silent black with a 
huge, pungent cigar, and by the time they reached K Street, Gene was glad to get out into 
the chilly October air. He paid the driver, tipped him, and then walked over to the wide 
stainless steel doors of the Franco-African Bank. A small delegation of Algerians was 
waiting there, too, shuffling their feet and talking to each other In thickly accented 
French. Gene couldn't catch everything they said, but he gathered that they'd been 
disappointed by the Jefferson Memorial. One of them said it reminded him of a sports 
pavilion.
    A few minutes before the bank was due to open, two girls came walking down K Street 
and joined the waiting customers. They looked to Gene like tellers, and so he stepped 
across with a hesitant smile. "Ladies?" he said.
    They turned and stared at him blankly. One of them had upswept spectacles,. and the 
other was chewing gum with such relentless energy that every muscle in. her face was 
working away like a rubber mask.
    "Excuse me," said Gene, "but do you ladies work here?"
    "What's ft to you?" said the one with the gum.
    "Well," said Gene, feeling embarrassed, "it's just that a friend of mine works here, 
and I was wondering if you knew her. Her name's Lorie Semple."
    "Lorie? Sure. She's in the foreign exchange department."
    "Do you know if she's coming in to work today?" asked Gene.
    "Never known her to miss a day," said the girl with, the gum. "She's real fit, you