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Paul Emmett； Professor and Mrs。 Paul Emmett； Professor Emmett； and Nancy Emmett。 Judging by the postmarks； it looked as though there was at least two days’ worth uncollected。 The Emmetts were either away； or—what？ Lying inside； dead？ I was developing a morbid imagination。 Some of the letters had been forwarded； with a sticker covering the original address。 I scraped one of the labels back with my thumb。 Emmett； I learned； was president emeritus of something called the Arcadia Institution； with an address in Washington； DC。
Emmett…Emmett…For some reason that name was familiar to me。 I stuffed the letters back in the box and returned to my car。 I opened my suitcase； took out the package addressed to McAra； and ten minutes later I’d found what I had vaguely remembered： P。 Emmett （St。 John’s） was one of the cast of the Footlights revue； pictured with Lang。 He was the oldest of the group； the one who I’d thought was a postgraduate。 He had shorter hair than the others； looked more conventional： “square；” as the expression went at that time。 Was this what had brought McAra all the way up here： yet more research about Cambridge？ Emmett was mentioned in the memoirs； too； now I came to think about it。 I picked up the manuscript and thumbed my way through the section on Lang’s university days； but his name didn’t appear there。 Instead he was quoted at the start of the very last chapter：
Professor Paul Emmett of Harvard University has portance of the English…speaking peoples in the spread of democracy around the world： “As long as these nations stand
together； freedom is safe； whenever they have faltered； tyranny has gathered strength。” I profoundly agree with this sentiment。
The squirrel came back and regarded me malevolently from the roadside。
Odd： that was my overwhelming feeling about everything at that moment。Odd。
I don’t know exactly how long I sat there。 I do remember that I was so bemused I forgot to turn on the Ford’s heater； and it was only when I heard the sound of another car approaching that I realized how cold and stiff I had become。 I looked in the mirror and saw a pair of headlights； and then a small Japanese car drove past me。 A middle…aged； dark…haired woman was at the wheel； and next to her was a man of about sixty； wearing glasses and a jacket and tie。 He turned to stare at me； and I knew at once it was Emmett； not because I recognized him （I didn’t） but because I couldn’t imagine who else would be traveling down such a quiet road。 The car pulled up outside the entrance to the drive； and I saw Emmett get out to empty his mailbox。 Once again； he peered in my direction； and I thought he might be about to come down and challenge me。 Instead； he returned to the car； which then moved on； out of my line of sight； presumably up to the house。
I stuffed the photographs and the page from the memoirs into my shoulder bag； gave the Emmetts ten minutes to open the place up and settle themselves in； then turned on the engine and drove up to the gate。 This time； when I pressed the buzzer； the answer came immediately。
“Hello？” It was a woman’s voice。
“Is that Mrs。 Emmett？”
“Who is this？”
“I wondered if I could have a word with Professor Emmett。”
“He’s very tired。” She had a drawling voice； something between an English aristocrat and a
southern belle； and the tinny quality of the intercom accentuated it：“S’vair tahd。”
“I won’t keep him long。”
“Do you have an appointment？”
“It’s about Adam Lang。 I’m assisting him with his memoirs。”
“Just a moment please。”
I knew they’d be studying me on the video camera。 I tried to adopt a suitably respectable pose。
When the intercom crackled again； it was an American male voice that spoke： resonant； fruity； actorish。
“This is Paul Emmett。 I believe you must have made a mistake。”
“You were at Cambridge with Mr。 Lang； I believe？”
“We were contemporaries； yes； but I can’t claim to know him。”
“I have a picture of the two of you together in a Footlights revue。”
There was a long pause。
“Come on up to the house。”
There was a whine of an electric motor； and the gate slowly opened。
As I followed the drive； the big three…story house gradually appeared through the trees： a central section built of gray stone flanked by wings made of wood and painted white。 Most of the windows were arched； with small panes of rippled glass and big slatted shutters。 It could have been any age； from six months to a century。 Several steps led up to a pillared porch； where Emmett himself was waiting。 The extent of the land and the encroaching trees provided a deep sense of seclusion。 The only sound of civilization was a big jet； invisible in the low cloud； dropping toward the airport。 I parked in front of the garage； next to the Emmetts’ car； and got out carrying my bag。
“You must forgive me if I seem a little groggy；” said Emmett after we’d shaken hands。 “We just flew in from Washington and I’m feeling somewhat tired。 I normally never see anyone without an appointment。 But your mention of a photograph did rather stimulate my curiosity。”
He dressed as precisely as he spoke。 His spectacles had fashionably modern tortoiseshell frames； his jacket was dark gray； his shirt was duck egg blue； his bright red tie had a motif of pheasants on the wing； there was a matching silk handkerchief in his breast pocket。 Now I was closer to him； I could discern the younger man staring out from the older： age had merely blurred him； that was all。 He couldn’t keep his eyes off my bag。 I knew he wanted me to produce the photograph right there on the doorstep。 But I was too canny for that。 I waited； and kept on waiting； so that eventually he had to say； “Fine。 Please； do come in。”
The house had polished wood floors and smelled of wax polish and dried flowers。 It had an uninhabited chill about it。 A grandfather clock ticked very loudly on the landing。 I could hear his wife on the telephone in another room。 “Yes；” she said； “he’s here now。” Then she must have moved away。 Her voice became indistinct and faded altogether。
Emmett closed the front door behind us。
“May I？” he said。
I took out the cast photograph and gave it to him。 He pushed his glasses up onto his silvery thatch of hair and wandered over with it to the hall window。 He looked fit for his age and I guessed he played some regular sport： squash； probably； golf； definitely。
“Well； well；” he said； holding the monochrome image up to the weak winter light； tilting it this way and that； peering at it down his long nose； like an expert checking a painting for authenticity； “I have literally no recollection of this。”
“But itis you？”
“Oh； yes。 I was on the board of the Dramat in the sixties。 e； as you can imagine。” He shared a complicit chuckle with his youthful image。 “Oh； yes。”
“The Dramat？”
“I’m sorry。” He looked up。 “The Yale Dramatic Association。 I thought I’d maintain my theatrical interests when I went over to Cambridge for my doctoral research。 Alas； I onl