I hastily gathered up all my belongings, and took a final look in the bathroom for any stray articles.  Satisfied I'd left nothing behind, I hurried along the corridor, away from the elevator, and lugged my suitcase up to the top floor in case Armitage was already on his way up from the lobby. Then I crossed to the other side of the building, sped down another staircase and out through a side door.

      I was desperate to know how Lori was fairing, but knew I'd better stay out of sight till she appeared.  There I waited, fearful that my pursuers would at any moment burst through the side door and charge me with burglary and espionage.  Yet why should I feel guilty?  On the contrary, everything suggested I was the innocent victim of some vile plot to defraud me of my rightful inheritance.

      At last Lori drove up and flung open the passenger door.  She sounded breathless.

      "Any problems?" I asked as we made a quick exit onto the highway.

      "Enough!" she panted.  "Both Armitage and Lanski came pounding into the lobby just as I was checking out.  Luckily they ignored the front desk, and made straight for the elevator."

      "They didn't see you?"

      "Sure, but they didn't recognise me.  I changed so quickly, I forgot I was still wearing the grey wig.  You've definitely got the tape?"

      "Don't worry," I said, my fingers closed firmly around it in my coat pocket.  "I wonder what the heavy mob are up to now?"

      "I guess they hoped to catch you, tape in hand.  With luck they'll find your door locked and assume you're still inside.  Of course, if they phone room service and hide till a waiter appears, we could be a hundred miles away by then."

      I asked where she was heading for, and her glance was ominous.

      "You may not like this, Richard, but I suggest we take a short break for refreshment, then creep back to Slaggs and see what more we can learn when Quinn gets there.  Don't forget, we've somehow got to activate that other tape."

      "I was afraid you'd say that.  I had the same thought, but was hoping you'd talk me out of it."

      "It'll round off Phase One nicely," she said.  "Once that's done, we'd better meet with John and discuss Phase Two.  Personally, I'm more than ready for our promised day off, aren't you?"

       Lori pulled up outside a brightly-lit pizza parlour.

      "How about we grab a couple of pizzas?" she decided.  "We can sit in the car and eat while we hear your tape."

      Five minutes later we were biting into large messy slices, trying not to drip cheese and gooey fixings all over the car.  I handed Lori the tape, and we listened.  Disappointingly, it seemed at first to be blank.

      "Guess it didn't start up," she conceded sadly, and was on the point of declaring it a waste of money when we heard the echoing slam of a door.

      "So," said a faraway voice I didn't recognise, "what's brewing?"

      "Plenty," we heard Dan say.  "Sit down."

      "Who else are we waiting for?"

      "I had to invite Driberg," Dan sighed.  "He knows something's going on, but I suggest we keep matters tight and formal, then release him."

      "Sure," said the stranger.  "Simon coming too?"

      Dan may have nodded or shaken his head.  The conversation then turned to trivial topics until another voice joined in.

      "Sorry, Dan, my watch must have stopped."

      "That's Driberg," Lori whispered.

      "So, Sam, how's the garden?"  Dan sounded far too hearty.

      "At this time of year?  Hopeless!" sighed Sam.  "So, what's up?"

      "We had a call this morning from some guy in England.  Unfortunately one of your girls took it, Sam, and missed a vital part of what the chap was saying.  Now we're still waiting for Fowler.  God knows where he's got to, or if he's even in today.  Anyway, let's not waste time.  It seems we have a new president, or a guy who claims he's the new president.  He's coming over from England with his auditor to find out what we savages get up to in the colonies."

      Voices murmured as they digested this information.  "When, exactly?"

      "Day after tomorrow," said Armitage.  "So the question is, what kind of show can you guys lay on for him?  I guess he'll want to know about sales.  That's where Sam can help us."

      "Right," said Sam, making the effort to sound eager.

      "But we don't want him getting too enthusiastic, Sam," the voice went on.  "I think if we play our cards right he'll soon leave us alone, provided we convince him everything's okay.  So, if you've got any live sales data on that computer, Sam, perhaps you'll arrange for it to be erased, just for a while.  And be discreet about it.  Also any test data - we don't want him getting excited and thinking it's the real thing, hm?  You'll take care of that for us?"

      "Sure," said the reluctant Sam, no doubt resenting the need to get involved.

      "Oh?" came a distant echo.  "You started without me?  Sorry."

      "Close the door, Simon," said Dan.  "We've been here since eleven, but it doesn't matter.  Perhaps, Sam, you could start your end of the job now while I discuss details of the visit with Marco and Simon.  If we decide anything else that affects your people, I'll call down."

      "Ah!  Right!" agreed Sam.  There was silence as he made his exit.

      "Now," Dan resumed in a voice we could barely hear, "we have an ugly problem.  In case you're not up to date, Simon, there's a visitor coming from England who claims - I say again, claims he's inherited the Slagg brothers' estate.  He seems to think he can just fly over here and set himself up on King Arthur's throne as the self-appointed new president.  Who he is, or what he is, I've no idea, thanks to Sam's incompetent staff.  But the vital point is this.  Whoever he may be, he's bringing an auditor who's bound to give us a very thorough examination."

      "Can he do that?" asked Fowler.  "I thought we had our own auditors?  Why can't he use them?"

      "Simon, we have our own auditors, as well you know, but I doubt if this English guy will be so obliging.  He'll demand to see everything, and since he'll examine it very carefully, we must ensure that whatever he sees is a hundred per cent perfection.  Everything must balance.  All accounts must reconcile with the bank statements.  I'll get onto the bank and find out what this guy's entitled to ask for.  Let's hope we can ride out this little hurricane with smiles on our faces, hm?"

      There was another silence as each considered the glum news.

      "When's Quinn due back?" asked Lanski.

      "Tonight," Dan announced, "by seven-thirty.  We're all four meeting in his office to agree on strategy.  If we stick together, I don't think we need worry."

      "Can't make it tonight," said Fowler.

      "I really think you should," Dan warned.  "Some of us will be here all night, Simon.  I've asked my staff to put in overtime this evening.  I doubt if my wife will see me before Saturday."

      "Better than wives not seeing us for ten years," added Lanski.

      "Speak for yourself," Fowler quipped, but no-one responded.

      "That's it then," Dan concluded.  "I'll pass our decision to Quinn and get his okay to proceed."

      "Right," the other two readily agreed.

      "Oh, and Simon - I don't care whether or not your office is ready, you clear your damned garbage out of my place now.  It's a disgrace!"

      That was the end of the conversation.  We listened through the rest of the tape but heard nothing more except the occasional slammed door and the ring of distant phones.

      "I'm puzzled," I said.  "Dan says he'll let Quinn know what they've decided, but - what exactly did they decide?"

      "Nothing," said Lori.  "It's called politics.  You hold a meeting to announce what's going to happen; and when no-one offers any alternative, they're all deluded into thinking it's a joint decision.  Whatever the decision was, Dan made it on his own, and he's keeping it to himself."

      "I dislike him intensely," I decided.  "I thought at first he was just a bumbling ass, but now I'm sure he's crooked as hell, and smart too.  He covers his tracks with a smoke-screen, making out he's vague and disorganised."

      "As indeed he may be," Lori suggested.  "Dan certainly runs rings round the other two, but it's Quinn who holds the reins.  That's why it's vital we stick our necks out again this evening."

      By seven o'clock we'd returned to the hotel parking lot, close to the adjacent factory fence, we waited for the arrival of Jonathan Quinn.

      "How will we recognise his car?" I asked.

      "You'll know," Lori assured me.

      After ten minutes a huge black Cadillac swept by.  The security guard, who'd clearly been primed, ran to open the gate, and left it as he followed Quinn's car to its privileged parking position.  While he hovered in subservient readiness, we seized our chance, and scurried in through the main gate to hide behind the guard-house.  Before the guard returned to lock up, we were able to slip round behind the office block and make our way stealthily towards the shipping department.

      Our first objective was to plug Lori's remote device into any power socket on site, and press the appropriate button to start up the recorder.   But then we hit a snag.  The door to the inner despatch office was firmly locked.

      "Damn!" I said.  "And the guard's locked the front gate now.  What's our means of escape?"

      Lori remained calm.  "This place is surrounded by a rusty fence," she reminded me.  "One sneeze and it'll disintegrate.   Come on, there's another door further along, but keep quiet.  Armitage said his staff would be working overtime."

      We crept along in the shadows until we drew level with the computer room.  Inside, the lights were on and I could see silhouettes of men moving about.  I wanted to get close enough to hear out what was being said, but it was equally important not to be seen.  We edged along the wall until we came to an open door beyond which we could hear raised voices.  

      "Look, God dammit, I spent months on that!  Why are you doing this, man?  What's gotten into you?"

      "Bosses' orders!" replied Driberg.  "Yours and mine."

      "But why?  Your staff have been keying that data in for months."

      "Too bad!  If anyone asks, it's only test data, understood?"

      "But it isn't;  you know damned well it isn't, Sam.  I don't get it.  Who wants it destroyed?"

      "Quinn, apparently."

      "But that's plum crazy - he's the guy who asked for it to be done.  He came storming in months ago and told the world it was about time he saw proper reports based on real figures instead of childish nonsense."

      "Well," sighed Sam, "it seems he changed his mind."

      "Well, if you ask me, he's gone bananas.  And you're not far behind if you support this kind of vandalism."

      "Only doing my job," said the placid Sam.  "And you keep this strictly to yourself, you understand?  There could be a big bonus in it later on."

      "Ah," whispered Lori.  "But for whom?"

      We heard ponderous footsteps moving away along the corridor.  I peered cautiously around the corner and saw the young computer programmer shaking his head in disbelief.  Before I could retreat, he glanced up and saw me.

      "Hi," I waved.  "Just passing through.  Any problems?"

      The lad was very nearly in tears.

      "Plenty," he pleaded, striding towards us.  "Tell me something!  Why would anyone be asked to set up a system for recording live data, and then be told a few weeks later it's all got to be destroyed?"

      "What's Sam taken with him?" I asked.

      "The disk pack with about eighteen months of sales on it, right back to the beginning of last year.  We spent ages keying it all in.  I don't get it.  There's nothing wrong with it."

      "How was it entered?"

      "Keyed straight to disk, and then copied into the new files."

      "And Sam's got the disk you copied it to?"

      He nodded.

      "I trust you've got tape backups?" I asked.

      "Only in Sam's safe.  He seems hell bent on destroying everything!  I would have made another complete set if he'd waited half an hour.  That's the only reason I'm still working this late."

      "What about the originals you used for data entry?"

      "They're only scratch packs, overwritten long ago.  Everything's on that one disk.  And Sam conned me into telling him the serial number, the two-faced son of a bitch!  Bowls in, all sweet and friendly like a teddy-bear, telling me what a grand job we've all been doing - then makes a grab for it, like he's suddenly gone berserk."

      "Right," I decided.  "Then we must get it back.  Can you find another disk just like it - one you can afford to lose?  If so, get it now and mark it up with the same serial number."

      The lad fetched a duplicate, identical to all the others on the rack.  Once it was renumbered, I took it and crept quietly along the corridor.  I inched open the door and saw the confiscated disk lying on a table in the main office.  Sam was in his own room, on the phone, with his back turned.

      "I've got the damned data you wanted," he was saying.  "But there could be trouble with Denis over this.  What do you want me to do with it now?"

      Luckily the sales office was in semi-darkness, its staff not involved in any overtime.  It didn't take me more than ten seconds to tiptoe in and exchange the vital disk for the one I was carrying.  I took off the protective lids and swapped them over, and before Driberg had finished on the phone, I was back in the computer room clutching my prize.

      "For goodness' sake," I told the lad, "get this thing backed up, pronto.  If someone wants it destroyed, you may be certain its contents need careful examination."

      As he turned away to select a suitable tape, Lori plugged her gadget into the mains and pressed a few buttons, hopefully to record whatever was going on in Quinn's office.

      "By the way, my name's Denis," the lad revealed as he mounted his tape.  "Thanks for your help there.  Which department are you in?"

      I was about to introduce myself when we heard familiar elephantine footsteps.  Sam's voice echoed down the corridor as he lumbered towards the computer room.  "Denis?  Who's that you're talking to?"

      Luckily, we were standing on the far side of the tall tape units, and Sam didn't see us straight away.  I beckoned frantically to Lori, and we just had time to raise a square of the false floor with a nail file and wriggle ourselves into the cavity beneath, while Denis neatly intercepted Driberg at the door, stalling him until we'd repositioned the section above our heads.

      "Look," Driberg was insisting.  "Don't deny it, I distinctly heard voices."

      "I'm not surprised," said Denis.  "Proves you've got excellent hearing, Sam.  The security guy said exactly the same last night when he came snooping around - only he accused me of having a girl-friend in here with me.  Of course, I told him the very same I'm telling you.  Yes, you did hear voices, and so did he, because they were distinctly audible in this room as well as outside.  But the point is, Sam, they didn't originate from here, you see, to be precise about it.  I often have the radio on when I'm working late.  So would you, if you felt as lonely as I do, trapped in here all on my own for hours on end.  There's no crime in that, surely, not at this time of night?  Look, Sam, when do I get that disk back?  They don't come cheap, you know, and I have to account for everything that comes and goes from here - Quinn's orders, and we don't either of us want to get on the wrong side of him!"

      It was a good performance, and Driberg seemed almost convinced, though we could hear his feet, inches above our heads, as he ponderously examined every corner of the room.  Finally he mumbled something about not working too late, and the footsteps eventually died away.

      Lori and I waited in silence, scarcely daring to breathe, until she began an attack of the giggles.

      "I was just thinking," she whispered, tickling my ear.  "If I need to apply for another job soon, should I include this sort of thing in my résumé?"

      That did it!  I lost control too.  There we lay, side by side on our backs, surrounded by cables and thick dust, huddled together in intimate proximity, and desperately uncomfortable.  In the end we both gave up the struggle, exploding into a wild concert of idiotic laughter and sneezes.

      Praying fervently that Driberg had gone, I eased up the hatch and saw Denis peering down at us with a broad grin of admiration, eager to share the joke.

      "So that's how you vanished!  Brilliant!  Don't worry, the coast is clear.  I just saw Driberg leave the building with his coat on."

      "Care to join us for a drink?" I asked him, as I helped Lori out and we dusted ourselves down.

      He paused.  "It's a tempting thought.  I was going to stay and work a while, but suddenly I've lost every ounce of dedication I ever had."

      "Chin up, Denis!" I said.  "Between us, we three have probably just rescued this company from  certain disaster.  But after what's happened, we'd best not let anyone else know we're still here.  Can you smuggle us out without being seen?"

      "Sure!" he agreed.  "We'll slip out the back way.  I have a pass key."

      Five minutes later we were back in the hotel parking lot, sitting in Denis's ancient Mustang, exchanging technical details about the computer system and the exciting new development projects he'd been working on.

      "It's fascinating," he said, "designing systems and watching your own programs go live.  If I didn't enjoy it, I would have gone home hours ago.  But it is later than I thought, so I'd better take a rain-check on that drink, and anyway, I drive a whole lot better when sober.  What department are you in, by the way?"

      It was Lori who answered.  "We're both in a special audit unit, but we prefer to keep a low profile.  Like you, we get most of our work done at night when everyone else is out of the way."

      Denis nodded his understanding, and thanked us again for helping out.

      "It's part of our job," I said as we parted company.  "You and I must get together again one evening, Denis, I'm sure we'll have plenty to talk about.  And do make sure you keep several extra copies of all your live data."

      "You bet!" he waved, and with a roar of the exhaust he disappeared into the twilight.

      "This," I sighed as I climbed into Lori's Pontiac, "has surely been the most terrifying day of my career.  I've pretended to be four different people.  I have been chased out of town and probably came close to being lynched.  I've discovered how it feels to be a hunted criminal and a cat burglar.  Finally, I get shoe-horned under a dusty floor with a giggling schoolgirl.  Tell me, is America always like this?"

      "Sure," said Lori.  "Did you think we had it easy?  Our guys didn't reach the moon by stirring cups of Earl Grey on the croquet lawn.  So what's next, Superman?"

      "Three questions.  Which hotel am I sleeping in tonight, what name shall I give myself, and do I need another disguise before checking in?"

      "It's not yet seven-thirty," she laughed.  "Feeling sleepy already?"

      "Listen," I said, "where I come from, it's gone midnight.  Besides, I'm an accountant, remember?  We're not trained up for this kind of life."

      "To share with you a very personal secret, my friend, neither am I.  Hungry?"

      I reminded her we'd just eaten large pizzas with loads of toppings.

      "You'll still need topping up before bedtime," she insisted, "and I know just the place.  So unless you're desperate for another rendezvous with Helen of Troy, I'll make one quick phone call, then we'll be on our way."

      I sighed.  "You want to book a table, just to impress me?  Go on, where is it this time?  Tiffany's?"

      "No," she said, "but a place where they serve an equally memorable breakfast.  All you have to do, partner, is to sit back and enjoy the ride.  We're a-headin' way out west, beyond them thar' hills."

      As Lori joined traffic on the interstate, the purr of the six-litre engine and the floating ride of soft luxurious suspension had a soporific effect.

      "You know," I murmured dreamily, "owner of that place or not, I don't fancy visiting Slaggs again for quite some time."

      "Tough!  You start your job first of August, remember?"

      "You think so?  Even if I were to come back in August, I doubt if I'd reach my first coffee-break before someone plunged a knife in my back."

      "Stop worrying, amigo.  In America we seldom stab the good guys before lunch.  I worked there too, remember, and most of my scars have healed."

      "Another problem," I said.  "There's not much I can achieve by working on the outside, but what am I supposed to do?  I can't afford to keep flying to and fro, and I'm likely to get the sack back home if I don't show up at my desk on Monday."

      "Maybe John'll come up with something.  That guy can work miracles.  Wait and see what he says."

      I nodded, and glanced at the instrument panel.

      "Fifty-five," I warned as we passed a speed-limit sign.

      "Don't get picky with me!  Lori knows what she's doing.  Everyone does sixty-four.  Sixty-five would invite the attention of State Troopers, and sixty-three would annoy the guys behind.  That's why I insisted on cruise-control."

      "I hope the guys behind us aren't Armitage or Driberg," I said.  "The further west we go, Lori, my dear, the safer I feel."

      The sky was staging a spectacular finale to the day as the sun sank slowly behind the distant hills.  Once it had set, the night grew dark more rapidly than it would in Britain.  New Jersey, I recalled, was on Mediterranean latitudes.

      "Does this road lead all the way to California?" I asked.

      "Yup!  Coast to coast.  Takes about a week."

      "I need to be back at the airport by Sunday, Lori, so put your foot down."

      "Okay, as long as you keep your credit card handy.  I don't think John's budgeted for speeding tickets.  But I'm prepared to risk sixty-seven if you'll keep a sharp lookout for the NJ Troopers."

      "I'm happy with sixty-four," I said.  "You're doing a grand job, for a light-weight Lori driver."

      "There!"  She bowed her head and thumped both fists against the wheel.  "You finally said it!  I've been waiting three days for that.  I was beginning to admire your restraint."

      "Sorry for the let-down.  No self-control, that's my weakness."

      "Well - taking all things into consideration, you've not done so badly," she conceded.  "Don't think I hadn't noticed, and don't think I'm not - well, you know..."

      She broke off.  Maybe her mind was censoring her tongue, denying it the freedom to voice thoughts more private.  I chose not to probe further.  I was content just to sit quietly and enjoy her stimulating company.

      "Are we planning to hit Chicago before dawn?" I asked.

      "We'll be off the highway by nine," she said, "and that's a promise."

      "Okay.  What's so special about this place we're making for?"

      "Wait and see!" she said mysteriously.  "By the way, we just crossed the state line.  You're now in Pennsylvania."

      Not that it made the slightest difference.  Darkness is the same the world over, even when broken by the stabbing lights of oncoming cars.  I could just make out steep mountainsides towering above us, but I was totally disorientated.  Only a childlike faith in my companion warded off doubts of my ever seeing home again.  But then, I got to thinking; what is the true worth of home unless it includes being close to one's truest friends?

      "You've got a friend in Pennsylvania," I was assured as we passed an illuminated sign to that effect.

      It was almost nine o'clock when Lori turned onto a narrow road that led past some large, newly-built houses, each well spaced from its neighbour and standing back, hundreds of feet from the road, with front lawns the size of football pitches.  She pulled onto someone's gravel drive and parked near a large, majestic oak door set in a dimly-lit porch.

      "Welcome to the new ancestral home," she proclaimed, "Castle D'Amico."

      I got stiffly out of the car, and waited for Lori to lead the way.  First she opened the boot - or trunk, as she called it - and we extracted our cases as yellow light spilled out onto the paved forecourt from behind a portly welcoming silhouette.

      "Not bad," said a deep, friendly voice.  "You said nine, though I couldn't convince your mother you meant it.  Well done.  Now perhaps we can allow ourselves a leisurely chat before we eat."

      We entered a spacious front hallway, and I put down my cases to shake hands.  The walls around me were of polished oak, giving an air of tasteful elegance.  I was faced by two smiling characters, both in their late sixties, a slim lady with slightly greying hair, and a genial father-figure in an open red sports shirt.  His eyes bore Lori's same built-in smile.

      "Formal introductions," Lori announced.  "This is Richard Downing from England.  He leads an adventurous life-style that puts Batman in the shade.  Richard, meet Mom and Pop.  One's called George and the other one's Vera - you can figure out which is which."

      Vera was keen to get on with the task of serving food if we needed it.

      "Tell me, darling, are you both still hungry?  I've only done salad and soup as I wasn't sure what time to expect you.  Give me five minutes."

      She disappeared into the kitchen, while her husband guided me briefly around the house, Lori following in proud attendance.

      "I retired from work in Manhattan two years ago," George explained, "and we moved out here.  It's quiet, too quiet for me sometimes, but Vera's content."

      He led us through an enormous lounge, to my mind furnished more as a display for regal visitors than offering much in the way of home comforts.   Next came the library, filled with several thousand books of all kinds - fine leather-bound copies of Dickens and Twain, and a wealth of history books, technical manuals, paper-backs and magazines about butterflies.  In one corner stood a glass showcase filled with colourful fluorescent-winged insects.

      "Pop is into moths and butterflies," Lori explained.  "Calls himself a leopard optimist or something."

      "Lepidopterist," the man obliged.  "Vera puts it another way.  She claims I have a butterfly-mind, and need moth-ering."

      "You see, Richard?" said Lori.  "Meet a man with your own sense of - something or other.  Not sure if Wit is really the word, Pop?"

      After some discussion we agreed that Whimsy might be more appropriate.

      "Lori introduced me to some fireflies a couple of nights ago," I revealed, hoping this might be of interest.

      "Beetles," said George dismissively.

      "Whatever they are," I went on, "it was a fascinating sight, and a new experience for me, just like everything else this week."

      Lori followed attentively as we progressed around the house, till a call from Vera summoned us to the kitchen where we found her heating soup over an enormous stove.

      "Nearly ready," she announced, a clear order to her husband that the rest of the tour was to be postponed.  Obediently we filed into the dining-room where a large polished table was set for four.

      Again, the furniture looked far too precious, as if relaxation and comfort had been sacrificed on the altar of immaculate splendour.  The whole house seemed more of a show-piece than a cosy home.  Vera said an unexpected grace, then chatted incessantly as she updated Lori with the latest local news.  The soup and salad were followed by cheese and biscuits, coffee and an orange soufflé, in that order.  Apparently, in America coffee often comes as a prelude to dessert.

      I noticed other curious habits too.  The Americans constantly laid aside their knives every time they used them, transferring the fork to the right hand for the business of eating.  I wondered if my British habit of maintaining a firm grip on both implements was considered bad form, and I felt bound to clarify the rules for my own peace of mind.

      "Forgive my Anglo-Saxon curiosity," I said, "but you're all eating with your forks in the right hand."

      You would think I'd just pointed out that the sky was blue and grass green.

      "Most English eat as I do," I went on, flushing slightly, "fork in the left hand, knife in the right.  I mention this only because I'd hate unwittingly to behave in a way you found offensive or to be guilty of a serious breach of etiquette or protocol."

      "Doesn't he have a lovely accent when he talks like that?" Lori enthused with an idolising smile.  "Don't worry about us Yanks, Richard, you're doing fine.  The important thing is that you and I get on okay, despite your quaint British table-manners."

      "You'll find hundreds of differences in the way we live," her father volunteered.  "The truth is that the insularity of our two nations is masked by a similarity of language.  But you know what I think?  I say it doesn't matter a damn what habits we have, so long as we feel good in each other's company, eh, Lori?"

      "I'll drink to that, Pop!  Or I would, if you'd thought to open a bottle."

      "Didn't I say, George, what about wine?" Vera reminded him.  "Go on, find yourselves something, for goodness' sake, even if you have left it too late for an opening toast to our British guest."

      The old man's nose wrinkled with an apologetic grin, a delightful echo of his daughter, and he shuffled off to fetch a Californian Burgundy.

      "So, how long are you staying in America?" Vera enquired pleasantly.

      Before I could answer, Lori stepped in on my behalf.

      "That's the sixty-four-thousand dollar question, Mom.  Richard still thinks it's only for this one week, but John and I are busy trying to rearrange his schedule."

      Lori leaned confidentially towards her mother and continued in a low voice which she knew was still audible.

      "You see, Mom - strictly between you and me - Richard and I get along just fine, and I'd don't like the idea of this guy vanishing when we've only just got to know one another.  On the other hand, he may be longing to escape to a country where he stands less chance of being gunned down by crooked sauce dealers, but I say this.  We should stick together, our two nations, and fight the common enemy!  You don't know what I'm talking about, do you Mom, but I love the way you nod helpfully as if you feel you ought to."

      I interrupted at the first opportunity.  "If I might make my own small contribution, Mrs. D'Amico, my personal plans seem to be changing by the hour."

      With my eye still on Lori, I copied her lean towards Vera to share a confidence of my own.

      "Strictly between ourselves," I confided, "I'm enjoying this young lady's companionship immensely, but I'm trying hard to ensure that my comings and goings don't cause sadness on either side of the Atlantic.  Keep that to yourself, mind.  I wouldn't want to upset the delicate balance of the ozone layer at this time."

      "Good!" Vera smiled at both of us in turn.  "Glad I asked.  Don't move," she added as she rose to take dishes away to the kitchen.

      "Isn't she fun?" whispered Lori.  "How do you like the house?"

      "Lovely," I agreed.  "But so big!  And I suspect, from the imposing staircase you have in the hall, there's another floor above?"

      Lori shook her head.  "Sorry.  The stairs are only to impress visitors," she said seriously.  "We sleep beneath a false floor in the garage.  Not bad, once you get used to the smell of hot oil."

      "I think I'd prefer even that," I retorted, "to the smell of warm tomato ketchup."

      "Speaking of which," she said, picking up an open sauce bottle and waving it menacingly above my head, "if you're to become immersed in the sauce industry here, my love, you'd better learn to call it To-mayd-o with an A, not To-mar-to with an R."

      "Vive la difference!" I exclaimed, toasting her with an imaginary glass of wine, just as her father appeared behind me and placed a real one into my raised hand.

      "He's keen, this fellow," he remarked, handing another to Lori.

      "In some matters, yes.  Dress him up as a Mexican sweeper and there's no holding him down.  Pop, do you have any windows that need fixing?"

      George didn't know what she was talking about, but seemed not to mind.

      "I never touch glass myself," he quipped easily, "unless it contains something good to drink.  Your excellent health, boys and girls, and here's to the colonies!"

      "And to all who live in them," I added.

      We drank several toasts in quick succession, George eagerly recharging our glasses as necessary.

      "To Her Majesty, the Queen," cried Lori, "and to one of her most loyal subjects!"

      "To all immigration officials and airline companies," I continued.   "May their comings and goings continue to come and go!"

      "Long life, prosperity, and a reduction in the basic rate of tax in both our lands," said George as his wife came in to clear the rest of the table.  I gallantly picked up several items, intending to follow her example, but her husband laid a firm hand on my arm.

      "Women's work," he declared.  "Come along, Richard.  We'll leave the ladies to their uncensored gossip while we complete our tour of Windsor Castle.  Bring your wine.  It'll need topping up."

      I knew I'd been summoned.  George took me down a flight of wooden steps into a vast basement that ran the full length of the house, filled with storage boxes, cases of butterflies, and a collection of redundant toys awaiting a new generation to revive their usefulness.

      "Still haven't gotten round to unpacking everything since the move," he apologised.  "This way."

      Beyond the laundry area was a cosy den with armchairs and an enormous television set.  Adorning the walls were pictures of the D'Amico family, past and present.

      "Recognise this little monster?"  George handed me a framed photograph of a five-year-old girl.  "Hasn't turned out badly, has she?"

      I endorsed his views wholeheartedly.

      "She's had rough times in recent years, poor love.  Understandably, we feel obliged to keep an extra close eye on her."

      This gentle statement carried an undertone of warning.  I told him I'd known Lori only five days, but admitted to a growing fondness.

      "She's a good kid," he went on, returning the photo to its shelf.  "As was her brother."  He took down another picture, a handsome young lad in army officer's uniform.  "He would look  a lot older now if he were still among us.  Met his end in Somalia," he added in a whisper.

      We walked on in silence till the smile returned, and George announced proudly:

      "And here we come to our wine cellar.  Some bottles didn't travel too well when we moved, but they're still quite palatable.  Where's your glass?"

      He refilled it from a decanter on the table.

      "Californian Burgundy," he said.  "A mere six years old."

      While I was savouring it, he went to his extensive collection and drew out another bottle, taking care not to tilt it.  The label proclaimed the year 1953.   "A real treasure, this," he said proudly, "dating from the time of your Queen's coronation."

      "Spot on!" I complimented him.  "I wasn't even born then."

      An eyebrow lifted and the head tilted thoughtfully.   "Somehow I didn't think so.  Then here's another from the same vineyard," he said, showing me a more recent vintage.  I obliged by confirming I was only slightly more mature by a mere two years, and he nodded gratefully.

      "Now this one," he announced, holding up a twenty-nine-year-old wine, "this is from Lori's era.  Give or take a month or two."

      It was an admirable way of exchanging information he wanted us both to share.  He put back his precious time-capsules, refilled our glasses, and we toasted one another in a bond of mutual understanding.

      Returning to the hallway, I saw Lori coming down the main staircase.

      "Hey, Richard, you were right - there is another layer.  Want to come and see?  I've taken both bags up, not knowing which one contained your toothbrush.  Come on, I'll show you the rest of the house, in case you thought it wasn't big enough already.  Dad, I'll be off to bed soon.  Some of us still work for a living and we've had a hectic day."

      "All right, my honey.  Sleep well."

      George's fatherly hug included a meaningful glance towards me, reinforcing his earlier words.  Then Lori ushered me upstairs and showed me the bathroom, pointing out each bedroom in turn.

      "You're in here," she said, opening the door to a comfortably furnished guest room.  It looked far more friendly than any hotel, and I said so.

      "You're welcome," she smiled.  "And maybe you'd like to know a little more about what I plan to show you this weekend.  Come this way."

      Intrigued, I followed her to what was obviously her own very feminine suite where she handed me some illustrated books on Pennsylvania, and a couple more featuring Virginia and the Blue Ridge Parkway.

      "If you can't sleep, at least you've got plenty to read," she said.  "Lots of pretty pictures to look at too, so off you go to bed and do your homework like a good boy.  We'll discuss details in the morning.  Breakfast is at eight."

      As Lori was about to take her leave, I held her gently by the shoulders to give her a loving good-night kiss.  It may have been the wine, but I felt a delicious warmth descend over me as her embrace tightened around my back.  She sustained it just long enough to confirm that my gesture was in no way unwelcome.  Then she broke away.

      "Come on, Englishman," she said abruptly.  "Playtime over!  See you fully dressed, clean-shaven and ready to leave as soon as we've eaten.  If you're down before eight, feel free to watch Mom burn the toast.  She always does."

      It took me hours to settle that night, my brain trapped in a vortex like a revolving door, haunted one moment by the day's traumatic events, taunted the next by constant awareness of my special new friend who might herself still be wide awake, not six paces from my pillow.  Just where would I be sleeping on Sunday night?  Unless I took drastic steps to rearrange my schedule, my time was fast running out.

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