grasping it quickly。
〃It was with Mr。 Beckmann's effects。〃
〃This is the book I gave him。〃 As he opened the flyleaf to the dedication page； the photograph slipped out。 〃What's this？〃 he asked as he picked it up。
Pendergast said nothing； asked no questions。
〃There he is；〃 Ponsonby said； pointing at the photo。 〃That's just how I remember him。 This must have been taken in Florence in the fall。〃
〃Florence？〃 said Pendergast。 〃It could have been taken anywhere in Italy。〃
〃No； I recognize that fountain behind them。 It's the one in Piazza Santo Spirito。 Always a big hangout for students。 And there； behind； you can just see theportone of the Palazzo Guadagni； which is a shabby studentpensione。 I say the fall because they're dressed that way； although I suppose it could have also been in spring。〃
Pendergast retrieved the picture； then asked offhandedly； 〃The other students in the photograph were also from Princeton？〃
〃I've never seen any of them before。 He must have met them in Florence。 Like I said； the Piazza Santo Spirito was a gathering place for foreign students。 Still is。〃 He closed the book。 His face looked very tired and his voice cracked。 〃Ranier 。 。 。 Ranier hadsuch promise。〃
〃We are all born with promise； Professor。〃 Pendergast stood up； then hesitated。 〃You may keep the book； if you wish。〃
But Ponsonby didn't seem to hear。 His shoulders were bent； and he caressed the spine with a trembling hand。
As they drove back to New York in the gathering dusk； D'Agosta stirred restlessly in the front passenger seat。 〃Amazing how you extracted all that information from the professor without his even knowing it。〃 And itwas amazing； though also a little sad： despite the professor's arrogance and high…handedness； he'd seemed terribly moved by the death of a favorite student； even one not seen for three decades。
Pendergast nodded。 〃One rule； Vincent： the more unwilling the subject is to release information； the better the information is； once released。 And Dr。 Ponsonby's information was as good as gold。〃 His eyes gleamed in the dark。
〃It looks like they met up in Florence in the fall of '74。〃
〃Exactly。 Something happened to them there； something so extraordinary it resulted in at least two murders； thirty years later。〃 He turned to D'Agosta。 〃Do you know the saying； Vincent； 'All roads lead to Rome'？〃
〃Shakespeare？〃
〃Very good。 In this case； however； it appears all roads lead to Florence。 And that is precisely whereour road should lead。〃
〃To Florence？〃
〃Precisely。 No doubt Bullard himself is on his way there； if he's not there already。〃
〃I'm glad there's not going to be any argument about my ing along；〃 D'Agosta said。
〃I wouldn't have it any other way； Vincent。 Your police instincts are first…rate。 Your marksmanship is astonishing。 I know I can trust you in a tight spot。 And the chances of ourselves ending up in just such a spot are rather good； I'm afraid。 So if you wouldn't mind sliding out the laptop again； we'll book our tickets now。 First class； if you don't mind； open return。〃
〃Leaving when？〃
〃Tomorrow morning。〃
48
D'Agosta let the cab drop him off at 136th Street and Riverside。 After what happened on his first visit to Pendergast's crumbling old mansion； there was no way in hell he was going to trust public transportation。 Still； caution prompted him to get off a block early。 Somehow he felt Pendergast would prefer it that way。
He dragged the lone suitcase out of the backseat； handed fifteen dollars to the driver。 〃Keep the change；〃 he said。
〃Whatever。〃 And the cabbie sped away。 Seeing D'Agosta and his luggage outside the hotel； he'd clearly been hoping for an airport fare…and he hadn't been at all pleased to find out the actual destination was Harlem。
D'Agosta watched the cab take the next corner at speed and vanish from sight。 Then he scanned Riverside Drive carefully； up and down； checking the windows； the stoops； the dark areas between the lampposts。 Everything seemed quiet。 Hefting the suitcase； he began trotting north。
It had taken about half an hour to prepare for the trip。 He hadn't bothered to call his wife…as it was； the next time he heard from her would probably be through a lawyer。 Chief MacCready of the Southampton P。D。 was delighted to hear he'd be taking an unscheduled trip as part of his modified duty with the FBI。 The chief was in increasingly hot water over the slow progress of the case； and this gave him a bone to throw the local press SPD officer sent to Italy to follow hot lead。 Given a dawn departure； Pendergast had suggested they both spend the night in New York at his place on Riverside Drive。 And now here he was； luggage in hand； just hours away from standing on his family's ancestral soil。 It was both an exhilarating and a sobering thought。
The one thing he'd miss； he thought as he neared the end of the block； was his blossoming relationship with Laura Hayward。 Though the frantic pace of the last few days had mostly kept them apart； D'Agosta realized he'd begun to feel； for the first time in almost twenty years； that constant； low…frequency tingle of courtship。 When he'd called her from the hotel to say he was acpanying Pendergast to Italy in the morning； the line had gone silent for several seconds。 Then she'd said simply； 〃Watch your ass； Vinnie。〃 He hoped to hell this little jaunt wouldn't throw a monkey wrench into things。
Ahead； the Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside rose up； the sharp ramparts of its widow's walk pricking the night sky。 He crossed the street； then slipped through the iron gate and made his way down the carriageway to the porte…cochère。 His knock was answered by Proctor； who wordlessly escorted him through echoing galleries and tapestried chambers to the library。 It appeared to be lit only by a large fire that blazed on the hearth。 Peering into the grand； book…lined room； he made out Pendergast near the far wall。 The agent had his back to the door and was standing before a long table； writing something on a sheet of cream…colored paper。 D'Agosta could hear the crackling of the fire； the scratch of the pen。 Constance was nowhere to be seen； but he thought he made out…just at the threshold of hearing…the distant； mournful sound of a violin。
D'Agosta cleared his throat； knocked on the door frame。
Pendergast turned quickly at the sound。 〃Ah； Vincent。 e in。〃 He slipped the sheet of paper into a small wooden box； inlaid with mother…of…pearl； that lay on the table。 Then he closed the box carefully and pushed it to one side。 It almost seemed to D'Agosta as if Pendergast was careful to shield its contents from view。
〃Would you care for some refreshment？〃 he asked； stepping across the room。 〃Cognac； Calvados； Armagnac； Budweiser？〃 Though the voice was Pendergast's usual slow； buttery drawl； there was a strange brightness to his eyes D'Agosta had not seen before。
〃No； thanks。〃
〃Then I'll help myself； with your indulgence。 Please have a seat。〃 And moving to a sideboard； Pendergast poured two fingers of amber liquid into a large snifter。
D'Agosta watched him carefully。 There was something unusual about his movements； a strange hesitancy； that…bined with Pendergast's expression…troubled D'Agosta in a way he could not quite describe。
〃What's happened？〃 he asked instinctively。
Pendergast did not immediately respond。 Instead； he replaced the decanter； picked up the snifter； and took a seat in a leather sofa across from D'Agosta。 He sipped meditatively； sipped again。
〃Perhaps Ican tell you；〃 he said at last in a low voice； as if arriving at a decision。 〃In fact； if any other living person is to know； I suppose that person should be you。〃
〃Know what？〃 D'Agosta asked。
〃It arrived half an hour ago；〃 Pendergast said。 〃It couldn't possibly have e at a worse time。 Nevertheless； it can't be helped； we've e too far with this case to change direction now。〃
〃Whatarrived？〃
〃That。〃 And Pendergast nodded at a folded letter on the table lying between them。 〃Go ahead； pick it up； I've already taken the necessary precautions。〃
D'Agosta didn't know exactly what was meant by that； but he leaned over； picked up the letter； and unfolded it gingerly。 The paper was a beautiful linen； apparently hand…pressed。 At the top of the sheet was an embossed coat of arms： a lidless eye over two moons； with a crouching lion beneath。 At first； D'Agosta thought the sheet was empty。 But then he made out； in a beautiful； old…fashioned script； a small date in the middle of the page：January 28 。 It appeared to have been written with a goose quill。
D'Agosta put it down。 〃I don't understand。〃
〃It's from my brother； Diogenes。〃
〃Your brother？〃 D'Agosta said； surprised。 〃I thought he was dead。〃
〃He is dead to me。 At least； he has been until recently。〃
D'Agosta waited。 He knew better than to say more。 Pendergast's sentences had grown hesitant； almost broken； as if he found the subject intolerably repellent。
Pendergast took another sip of Armagnac。 〃Vincent； a line of madness has run through my family for many generations now。 Sometimes this madness has taken a benign or even beneficial form。 More frequently； I fear； it has manifested itself through aston