That was the obvious course of action. Call the police. Do it now. Stay out of sight and wait.

But Leonard Holmes Nair was not a man known for doing the obvious and sensible thing. He was not foolhardy, but he often took the other path, the one less traveled. Whatever was going on with George Marsh—there was a story there, a story he might never know if the police raided the house and took him away. This story that was clearly fairly complicated, because if George had killed Alice, why had he brought her back? Questions would linger for the rest of his life, and that was a prospect that troubled Leo quite a bit.

Then again, confronting a man who was used to physical fighting and was probably a bit on the nervous side also didn’t seem like a good option.

So what was it to be?

Leo looked to the moon to help, but it simply hung in the sky and told him nothing. The cold was penetrating his clothes. At least the smell was starting to leave his nose. He would never feel the same way about the scent of fresh earth again. He had gone to the underworld and returned, changed.

He opened the door to Albert’s office and switched on a small, green-shaded light at the desk by the door. He was fairly certain that Albert kept a revolver in the desk. He tried all the drawers but found them locked. He searched the top of the desk for a key, rummaging through papers, telegraph slips, pen and pencil containers, looked under the phone. He did the same to Mackenzie’s much neater desk on the opposite side of the room. He spent a fruitless hour delicately ransacking the room before pausing to lean against the cold fireplace. The French clock ticked away the midnight hours.

The clock. This chunk of green marble, fabled to have been among Marie Antoinette’s possessions. Leo picked it up. It was a heavy piece, weighing twenty pounds or more. He lifted it over to one of the reading chairs and set it down, flipping it on its head. He felt around for the catch that Albert had shown him those years before, that snowy day in Switzerland. His long fingers worked the base of the clock until he felt the small indentation, barely noticeable. He pressed on it and felt something give—the little drawer in the base. He flipped the clock upright and pulled it open, revealing a small collection of loose keys.

“Albert, you maniac,” Leo said, snatching them up. A few tries revealed which ones opened which drawers, and a bit more poking turned up a small but powerful-looking revolver and some ammunition. Leo had never loaded a gun before, but the general mechanics of the thing seemed clear enough.

Five minutes later, he was making his way out into the great open atrium of the house, his steps echoing against the marble and crystal and miles of polished wood, this cathedral of wealth and sadness. It seemed best not to sneak up on Marsh; one doesn’t want to creep up on a person who has just buried a body in a tunnel at midnight. Better to make it loud.

“Hello!” he called. “It’s me, Leo! George, are you up there?”

George appeared on the landing in seconds, dressed only in the bottom half of some pajamas.

“Leo?” he said. “What are you doing here? How long have you been there?”

His tone gave away nothing, but his question did.

“I came back,” Leo said again. “God, it’s dismal. Come have a drink.”

George hesitated a moment, gripping the rail, then said, “Of course, yeah. A drink.” He walked along the balcony rail, looking down as he approached the stairs. “Anyone else come back? I didn’t hear you.”

“No,” Leo said, trying to sound casual. “I felt terrible and came back earlier. I’ve been in bed all day. I woke up and thought you’d be about.”

It was a strange story and a weird way to announce that you’d been around for hours, but it would have to do. The weight of the gun in Leo’s pocket seemed to increase. Would it be noticeable? Perhaps. Best to put it down.

“Come to Albert’s office,” Leo said, hurrying back in that direction. “The good stuff is in here.”

He quickly settled himself in the chair by one of the decanter trollies and stuffed the gun behind him, making sure the barrel was pointed downward. Hopefully it wouldn’t set itself off. Guns didn’t do that, did they?

“Funny I didn’t hear you,” George said. “When did you get back?”

“Oh . . .” Leo waved his hand airily. “I never went. Turned around on the drive. Couldn’t face a day out there on the boat. The whole thing is very . . .”

He shivered a bit to indicate the emotional state of things.

“Yeah,” George said, seeming to relax a bit. He came over and poured himself a bit of the whiskey from the decanter. “It really has been. I could use a drink.”

“You were smart to stay as well,” Leo said, sipping gingerly. “This nightmare.”

The gun made it impossible to lean back, so Leo hunched forward a bit as if the weight of the day sat on his shoulders like a monkey. The two men drank in silence for several minutes, listening to the rain hit the wall of French doors and the wind whistle in the chimney.

It was now or never. He could drink and go to bed, or he could continue.

“George . . . ,” Leo said.

“Yeah?”

“You know I . . . well, I’d like to ask you something.”

George Marsh’s expression didn’t change much. A few blinks. A slide or two of the jaw.

“What’s that?”

Leo swirled the liquid in his glass with one hand, keeping the other alongside his leg, where he might slide it back if necessary.

“I saw what you did. I thought you might explain.”

There was no immediate reply, just the ticking of the clock and the patter of the rain.

“Saw?” George finally said.

“Out under the dome, in the tunnel.”

“Oh,” George said.

Oh didn’t quite cover the situation, Leo felt, but the conversation had started. George let out a long breath and leaned forward. Leo had a surge of raw panic and almost slid his hand back for the gun, but George was only putting his drink down in order to rest his elbows on his knees and cradle his head in his hands for a moment.

“I found her,” George said.

“Clearly,” Leo replied. “But where? How?”

George lifted his face.

“I’ve been doing some digging around in New York,” he said. “Working some leads. I got something promising a few weeks ago, couple of hoods started talking about doing the Ellingham job. I went down, did some listening of my own. I finally found one of the guys, grabbed him outside of a restaurant in Little Italy. It didn’t take much to make him talk. He gave me a location. I went there. I found her body.”

“So why didn’t you say something?” Leo said.

“Because the idea of her is keeping Albert alive,” George replied, becoming more animated. “He doesn’t have Alice, but if he has this idea of Alice—someone to look for and buy toys for—what would he do without that?”

“Move on with his life,” Leo said.

“Or end it. That kid is everything to him.” George’s voice choked a bit as he said this. “I failed him that night. I failed Iris, and I failed Alice. But then I found her. I brought her here because she should be at home, not in the place I found her, some field. Home. She should be buried with some kind of love. Near her father.”

“Near her father?” Leo asked.

“Albert,” George replied. But the little quiver in his voice told Leo what he needed to know.

“So Flora spoke to you,” Leo said.

George sagged, his head lolling toward his chest.

“How long is this supposed to be a secret?” Leo asked. “Forever? Until he gives his entire fortune away trying to find her?”

“I don’t know,” George replied. “I only know this is what’s best for now.”

“And then at some point you’ll say, ‘You’ll never guess what happened! I found your daughter and buried her out back. Happy birthday!’”

“No,” George snapped. “Forever, then. Probably forever. As long as she’s alive in his mind, that part of him is alive.”

“And the people who did this?”

“Taken care of,” George replied. This time, his tone brooked no further comment.

“So,” Leo said, tapping his nails on the arm of the chair, “the case is over.”

“Yes.”

“With Alice buried here behind the house.”

“Yes.”

“Something only you and I know,” Leo said.

“Yes.”

“So what you want is for me to enter a pact of silence with you on this matter.”

“Yes. It has to be a secret.”

“Obviously,” Leo replied.

“I mean, just us. No one else. Not Flora. No one.”

“Again, that is obvious. I don’t want this on her conscience.”

“So,” George said, “we agree?”

Leo shifted carefully in his seat, the gun still pressing into his spine. On one hand, it was clear what he needed to do—tell someone. Tell everyone. Call the police now.

And yet . . .

He had seen people give up hope before, seen the light leave their eyes. Albert Ellingham could buy almost anything he wanted, but not hope. Hope is not for sale. Hope is a gift.