Jean Stark, Oliver Hart’s housekeeper, stepped into his study just after 8 p.m. Hart sat behind a walnut desk centered in the room, cabinets and bookshelves along the walls. A painting hung behind him, cluttered docks and ships with sails, framed by two twelve-paned windows that overlooked a garden showing signs of autumn.
“Colonel Duncan is here,” she said, coming close to the desk.
“What does he want?” Hart asked quietly, peering into the hall.
“He wouldn’t say. But he claims it’s important.”
Hart frowned. “He claims everything is important.”
She leaned across the desk. “I’m sorry, sir, but I just don’t like the man. He’s polite—never said anything to offend—but there’s just something about him.”
Hart was quiet, his lips taut. “Yes, there is,” he agreed. He hesitated, not intereste
