The wonders of the Woodstern foyer only began with the towering suits of armor, dating to the Feudal periods on two continents, that stood guard on either side of the main doors. The walls were decorated with braces of Civil War-era pistols and arrays of cavalry sabers. Interspersed with these hung American landscapes in baroque frames. A wide staircase twisted up the lefthand corner. A darkly varnished banister chased the stairs up to the second-floor landing, from which, through the lathed posts of the banister, two long, smooth legs dangled like barefooted bolts of lightning. How long was it before the legs retracted, their anonymous bearer retreating out of sight, and I found myself standing, limp armed and mouth ajar, roused from reverie by a shoulder-tap from smirking Mrs. Woodstern?

"This way, Mr. Rockford. I'm a busy woman, so I'll cut to the chase. I want you to locate for me a missing person by the name of Sydney Symanski."

"Friend? Relation?"

"An art broker who owes me money."

She led the way from the foyer down a hallway lined with luminist landscapes. We entered a small, peach sitting room. It was sparsely furnished with a circular wooden table, on which there was a silver tray and a porcelain tea set, and two plush chairs which were identical except that one was several inches taller.

"Your choice of tea?" she asked, sitting in the higher chair.

"Earl Grey."

"I prefer Lapsang." She poured smoky red liquid from the pot into the two available cups. "I comissioned Symansky to sell an original Silva. He did so, but before returning the proceeds he purchased a Bierstadt, with which he absconded. I have reason to believe that he will return to Boston shortly, likely in secret, but need you to discover where he will be so that we can remind him of what he owes us."

"Us?"

"The estate, Mr. Rockford."