Ruth was standing near the bottom of the grand staircase, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron.

Her face was pale, and she looked toward the closed double doors of the library.

“He is in there, Daniel,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Where are the boys?” I asked.

“They are upstairs with the nanny,” she said. “They are asleep.”

“Good,” I said. “Keep them up there.”

I walked toward the library doors, my wet coat dripping onto the hardwood floor.

I took a deep breath, clutching the manila envelope tightly against my side.

I pushed the heavy oak doors open.

The library was warm, a fire crackling quietly in the stone hearth.

Sitting in one of the leather armchairs was Mr. Croft.

He was an elderly man with sharp gray eyes and silver hair combed perfectly back.

He wore a tailored wool suit that looked expensive and stiff.

On the small table beside him sat a crystal glass containing two fingers of my father’s scotch.

He looked up as I entered, his expression completely blank.

“Daniel,” he said, his voice smooth and devoid of any warmth.