‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely. Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. She had found the location of his firm on the internet on a library computer, tracing him to this place in New York where he practiced criminal law. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent.
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