I was hungry, too, but mostly I was worried about what to do next. Now that we were off the train, Barley could go to any public phone in sight and find a way to call Mrs. Clay or Master James or perhaps an army of gendarmes to take me back to Amsterdam in handcuffs. I looked warily up at him, but his face was mostly obscured by the sandwich. When he emerged from it to drink a little orange soda, I said, “Barley, I’d like you to do me a favor.”

“Now what?”

“Please don’t make any phone calls. I mean, please, Barley, don’t betray me. I’m going south from here, no matter what. You can see I can’t go home without knowing where my father is and what’s happening to him, can’t you?”

He sipped gravely. “I can see that.”

“Please, Barley.”

“What do you take me for?”

“I don’t know,” I said, bewildered. “I thought you were angry about my running away and might still feel you had to report me.”

“Just think,” said Barley. “If I were really upstanding, I could be on my way back to tomorrow’s lectures-and a good sound scolding from James-right now, with you in tow. Instead, here I am, forced by gallantry-and curiosity-to accompany a lady to the south of France at the drop of a hat. You think I’d miss out on that?”

“I don’t know,” I repeated, but more gratefully.

“We’d better ask about the next train to Perpignan,” Barley said, folding up his sandwich paper decisively.

“How did you know?” I said, astonished.

“Oh, you think you’re so mysterious.” Barley was looking exasperated again. “Didn’t I translate all that business in the vampire collection for you? Where could you be going if not to that monastery in the Pyrénées-Orientales? Don’t I know my map of France? Come on, don’t start scowling. It makes your face so much less piquant.” And we went to thebureau de change arm in arm, after all.

“When Turgut uttered Rossi’s name in that unmistakable tone of familiarity, I had the sudden sense of a world shifting, of bits of color and shape knocked out of place into a vision of intricate absurdity. It was as if I’d been watching a familiar movie and suddenly a character who had never been part of it before had strolled onto the screen, joining the action seamlessly but without explanation.

“‘Do you know Professor Rossi?’ Turgut repeated in the same tone.

“I was still speechless, but Helen had apparently made a decision. ‘Professor Rossi is Paul’s adviser in the history department of our university.’

“‘But that is incredible,’ Turgut said slowly.

“‘You knew of him?’ I asked.

“‘I have never met him,’ Turgut said. ‘But I heard of him in a most unusual way. Please, this is a story I must tell you, I think. Sit down, my fellows.’ He gestured hospitably, even in the midst of his amazement. Helen and I had leaped to our feet, but now we settled near him. ‘There is something here too extraordinary -’ He broke off, and then seemed to force himself to explain to us. ‘Years ago, when I became enamored of this archive, I asked the librarian for all possible information about it. He told me that in his memory no one else had ever examined it, but that he thought his ancestor-I mean, the librarian before him-knew something about it. I went to see the old librarian.’

“‘Is he alive now?’ I gasped.

“‘Oh, no, my friend. I am sorry. He was terribly old then, and he died a year after I talked with him, I believe. But his memory was excellent, and he told me that he had locked up the collection because he had a bad feeling about it. He said a foreign professor had looked at it once and then become very-how do you say?-upset and almost crazy, and run out of the building suddenly. The old librarian said that a few days after this happened, he was sitting alone in the library one day with some work, and he looked up and suddenly noticed a large man examining the same documents. No one had come in, and the door to the street was locked because it was evening, after the public hours for the library. He could not understand how the man had got in. He thought perhaps he had not locked the door after all, and had not heard the man come up the stairs, although this hardly seemed possible. Then he told me’-Turgut leaned forward and lowered his voice further-‘he told me that when he went close to the man to ask him what he was doing, the man looked up and-you see-there was a little bit of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.’

“I felt a wave of revulsion, and Helen raised her shoulders as if to ward off a shudder. ‘The old librarian did not want to tell me about it, at first. I believe he was afraid I would think he was losing his mind. He told me the sight made him feel faint, and when he looked again the man was gone. But the documents were still scattered on the table, and the next day he bought this holy box in the antiques market and put the documents into it. He kept them locked up, and he said no one troubled them again while he was librarian here. He never saw the strange man again.’

“‘And what about Rossi?’ I demanded.

“‘Well, you see, I was determined to trace every little path of this story, so I asked him for the foreign researcher’s name, but he could not remember anything except that he thought it was Italian. He told me to look in the register for 1930, if I wanted to, and my friend here allowed me to do so. I found Professor Rossi’s name, after some searching, and discovered he was from England, from Oxford. Then I wrote him a letter in Oxford.’

“‘Did he reply?’ Helen was almost glaring at Turgut.

“‘Yes, but he was no longer at Oxford. He had gone to an American university-yours, although I didn’t connect the name when we first talked-and the letter found him there after a long time, and then he wrote back. He told me that he was sorry but he did not know anything about the archive to which I referred and could not help me. I will show you the letter at my apartment when you come for dinner with me. It arrived shortly before the war.’

“‘This is very strange,’ I muttered. ‘I just can’t understand it.’

“‘Well, this is not the strangest thing,’ Turgut said urgently. He turned to the parchment on the table, the bibliography, and his finger traced Rossi’s name at the bottom. Looking at it, I noticed again the words after the name. They were Latin, I was sure, although my Latin, dating back to my first two years of college, had never been impressive and was now rusty, to boot.

“‘What does that say? Do you read Latin?’

“To my relief, Turgut nodded. ‘It says, ”Bartolomeo Rossi, ’The Spirit-the Ghost-in the Amphora.‘“’

“My thoughts whirled. ‘But I know that phrase. I think-I’m sure that’s the title of an article he’s been working on this spring.’ I stopped. ‘Was working on. He showed it to me about a month ago. It’s about Greek tragedy and the objects the Greek theaters sometimes used as props onstage.’ Helen was looking intently at me. ‘It’s-I’m sure that’s his current work.’

“‘What is very, very strange,’ Turgut said, and now I heard the actual current of fear in his voice, ‘is that I have looked at this list many times, and I have never seen this entry on it. Someone has added Rossi’s name.’

“I stared at him in amazement. ‘Find out who,’ I gasped. ‘We must find out who has been tampering with these documents. When were you last here?’

“‘About three weeks ago,’ Turgut said grimly. ‘Wait, please, I will first go ask Mr. Erozan. Do not move.’ But as he got up, the attentive librarian saw him and came to meet him. They exchanged a few quick words.

“‘What does he say?’ I asked.

“‘Why did he not think to tell me this before?’ Turgut groaned. ‘A man came in yesterday and looked through this box.’ He questioned his friend further, and Mr. Erozan gestured at the door. ‘It was that man,’ Turgut said, pointing, too. ‘He says it was the man who came in a little while ago, to whom he was talking.’