Cars rumbled along the street. A woman pushing a baby carriage hurried by. A damp sheet of newspaper tumbled across the toes of my shoes.

Paul had won. A clean sweep.

I stared at my empty hands.

Marguerite appeared in front of me. I picked up details as if studying a photograph: the tiny imperfections in her skin, the intense darkness of her eyes, the lines around her mouth and between her brows.

She grasped my shoulders and gave me a none-too-gentle shake.

"Monsieur, you must come inside! Inside!" She gestured toward the door. "You must see!"

"See?" I waved her away.

"Come, come!" She left me and went into the house. I rose wearily and followed her.

She led me into the kitchen, where she took a folded sheet of paper from beneath a breadbasket and handed it to me.

I unfolded it and found a note in French.

Alec, ne crains rien.
Tout n'est pas perdu. Poursuis comme prévu.
Thomas dit : « chevaux ».
Je t'aime.
~ Henri

"I don't understand." I tried to hand it back to her, but Marguerite shook her head. Impatiently, she came to my side and traced her finger beneath the words as she spoke.

"Alec, do not fear.
All is not lost. Carry on as planned.
Thomas says, 'horses.'"

She hesitated with her finger hovering beneath the last two lines, but did not translate them. I took the note from her gently and tucked it into my breast pocket.

"Thank you, Marguerite."

She turned and caught me in a quick, tight hug, released me, and immediately set to scrubbing at the already spotless sink. I retreated to Henri's room and sat on the end of his bed, where I read over the note again, mouthing the words to myself.

Je t'aime...

Je t'aime...

***

A letter came by the evening post: an official letter from Henri's attorney.

It stated his wishes and reassurances in concrete terms; Henri had matters in hand and neither required nor wished for our assistance. We were not to worry if we did not see him for several days.

Unlike the note in the breadbasket, this he'd directed to the household at large, yet the message carried something different for each of us.

For me, it said to trust and wait.

In the morning, I went home.

Marguerite protested, but all my paints and supplies were there. More importantly, I wanted to be present if Paul should test the truth of my claims.

Mantua Avenue did not welcome me. The house lay dark, the air frigid. I swept and dusted, set up my easel, and made myself a meager supper of beans and toast — which I ate while regretting the soufflé Marguerite had promised as a bribe to keep me at Henri's.

I schooled myself to respect his wish not to interfere, but anxiety ate at my resolve. What if I never saw him again?

The note nagged at me, too. Thomas says horses. What did horses have to do with anything?

It was later, as I sat on my stool before my easel and mixed my palette, blending colors and letting my mind wander where it would, that the pieces fell into place.

Paul's gambling debt. "...I bet on the wrong horse..."

And then there was Lucy Bowman's story of the race: "...The favorite started well ahead. Poor beast's heart simply failed him..."

I paused with my brush hovering above the blank canvas.

Lucy said she'd been there with Harold. Had Paul been there, too? If he'd gambled and lost badly, and couldn't pay his debts, could that have been what pushed him to think of Thomas and the forgeries?

But no, the timeline wasn't right. Lucy had said that the race was 'just last year,' and Thomas had been dead eighteen months already. A previous incident, perhaps: something in the 'wild years' after Paul came into his inheritance, when he spent fast and free, and was careless with credit.

With sudden, unfamiliar resolve, I set my brush down, gathered my things, and struck out for the corner of 13th and Locust Streets, and the Free Library of Philadelphia.

***

Walls of books enclosed the reference room, which was divided into two levels by a spiral staircase and a wrap-around walkway. Heavy tables crowded the floor, at which men and women sat poring over open pages. I asked for back issues of any papers they held for the years 1921 - 1923, which covered the time during which Thomas would have had both the skill and time to complete the series of replicas he'd made for Paul, and a librarian fetched me a stack of heavy, bound volumes.

I spent the day leafing through them, scanning endless columns of dense text for mentions of unusually exciting horse races, heedless of all else.

I had just about abandoned hope when my eyes landed on a report from August of 1922.

Disaster at the Track!

Spectators were astonished and dismayed on Saturday last when Honeycomb, the season's favorite, broke down in the last quarter. The horse had won four out of his last five races, and the upset left several gentlemen with regrettable debts. A Mr. H. Bowman, however, realized a pretty sum by backing Doubleday, who took first place with odds of twenty to one.

Twenty to one! That had to be it. Paul wasn't named, but Bowman was enough.

My gaze went unfocused as I imagined it. Paul placed bets cavalierly, confidently, but he made a bad gambler because he hated to lose. He'd have bet on the favorite and chased his losses the rest of the day, coming up disastrously short. Bowman, who had an 'easy-come, easy-go' attitude that largely kept him out of such trouble, would have offered to cover Paul's losses with the sum he'd won on Doubleday — with an unspoken understanding that Paul would pay him back with interest, or would owe him some equivalent in favors.

Paul's hatred for losing was equaled only by his hatred of being in another man's debt. He'd have sought solutions and come upon art. That was just about the time he'd drawn Thomas into his sphere, and away from me.

With Honeycomb's name in hand, I worked backward through the papers until I found a report of the ill-fated horse's first big win, which had stirred enough excitement for the writer to note the beast's looks. I copied the description down with care: a slender dun gelding, thoroughbred, four black stockings, black tail and mane.

Satisfied that I had what I needed, I looked up and found myself alone, aside from the librarian and his assistants, who watched me with undisguised impatience. The clock above the table told me why: it was nearly six, and I had less than a quarter hour before the library closed. I'd been there all day, to which the aches in my limbs and back now attested.

I stood and tipped my hat in thanks as they swept in to collect the materials I'd used, and climbed the spiral stairs with one hand on the rail. I hadn't eaten or had anything to drink since breakfast, and regretted my self-neglect.

The sun hadn't quite set, and I stood on the sidewalk, swaying and blinking like a drunkard as I weighed my options. I could go home, but it would take the better part of an hour by streetcar. Henri's house was less than ten minutes away, and Marguerite's cooking sorely tempted me. Paul's place lay closer still, but I shuddered at the thought of encountering him in my condition.

I stuck my hand in my pocket, counted my current worth, and walked to the corner deli. 25¢ bought me a hearty sandwich — prime roast beef and Swiss cheese on rye — and the streetcars carried me home.

There, I took stock. A choice stood before me: I could run myself into the ground, or I could do things properly. I went with the second option, let my mind be the general, my body the troops, and ordered myself to rest. In the morning, though, I set to work with an industry born of purpose.

***

From sunrise to sunset, I painted, allowing myself breaks only to eat and to rest my eyes. I did almost nothing else, save sleep and bathe. By dawn of the third day, I had finished.

Two paintings, nearly identical, but with a slight difference between them — 'frames,' as they say in the moving pictures.

Exhausted and dressed only in my night-robe, I sorted through the pile of mail I found at my door and discovered the invitation I had anticipated with dread: Rachel's birthday gala and soiree would be held in a week's time, on Saturday next.

Paul had not troubled me since the day I had gone to him, and this in itself worried me. Did he test me or trust me? I had, as he put it, never disappointed him yet, but that was before Henri.

Henri, whose fate I did not know, and who had asked me not to help him, even if I could.

I spent my time practicing illusions, going over every trick Eddie ever taught me, again and again, until I was certain I had mastered them. I would need them all, if my plan had any hope of success.

On Wednesday, I forced myself to dress and visit Paul, who — to my intense relief — was busy and could not receive me. I left my card and returned home.

On Thursday, the bell rang while I was in the bath, and by the time I answered it, the caller was gone, but a packet containing a fresh baguette and a generous slice of brie lay on the step.

On Friday, the bell rang again, and this time I raced to answer it, hoping to thank Marguerite.

Instead, the door opened to reveal Henri. He could have stepped from a Leyendecker collar ad, suave and elegant, if the collar man had curling hair and dusky skin.

"Henri..."

"I told you I would be all right." He smiled and stepped inside, shutting the door at his back.

I wavered, uncertain as ever. Then I decided, stepped forward, and embraced him.

"Je t'aime," I said, shivering as his arms encircled me.

He laughed under his breath. "So, you do speak French," he said.