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father," Beau said.

"They're not exactly in the mood to talk to

you," she spit back at us. "In the midst of our

mourning, you two had to make problems."

"There are some terrible misunderstandings we

must try to fix," Beau insisted, and then added, "for

the sake of the baby more than anyone."

Toby gazed at me. Something in my face

confused her and she relaxed her shoulders. "How's Pearl?" I asked quickly.

"Fine. She's doing just fine. She's with Jeanne,"

she added.

"She's not here?"

"No, but she will be here," she said firmly. "Please," Beau pleaded. "We must have a few

minutes with your parents."

Toby considered a moment and then stepped

back. "I'll go see if they want to talk to you. Wait in

the study," she ordered, and marched down the

hallway to the stairs.

Beau and I entered the study. There was only a

single lamp lit in a corner, and with the dismal sky,

the room reeked of gloom. I snapped on a Tiffany

lamp beside the settee and sat quickly, for fear my

legs would give out from under me.

"Let me begin our conversation with Madame

Tate," Beau advised. He stood to the side, his hands

behind his back, and we both waited and listened, our

eyes glued to the entrance. Nothing happened for so

long, I let my eyes wander and my gaze stopped dead

on the portrait above the mantel. It was a portrait I had done of Paul some time ago. Gladys Tate had hung it in place of the portrait of herself and Octavious. I had done too good a job, I thought. Paul looked so lifelike, his blue eyes animated, that soft smile captured around his mouth. Now he looked like he was smiling with impish satisfaction, defiant, vengeful. I couldn't

look at the picture without my heart pounding. We heard footsteps and a moment later Toby