"Indeed. It was a terrible scandal, for us and for her poor mother."
"Who did she run off with, Miss Foster? Do you recall?"
"Distinctly. Count Edouard de Lasserre, the cousin of Miranda's roommate, Amalie." The headmistress's nostrils flared delicately. "To think that members of such a fine old French family should have been compromised by that girl... oh, it still makes my hackles rise!"
"It was Miranda's doing, then?"
"Of course it was! Amalie was beside herself, and her parents were furious. They removed her from our school at once and she returned to France. As for the Count—I must say, I felt pity for him."
"You don't hold him responsible for what happened?"
"I do not. Miranda was a corrupting influence, even at her tender age. She lured him into the situation. I am sorry, Mr. O'Neil, but I must be blunt. The Count de Lasserre should have been wiser but he had every man's appetites and weaknesses and Miranda played upon them."
Conor looked up from the file. Agnes Foster's wrinkled cheeks were flushed. She wasn't sorry, she was simply delivering the gospel she lived by. He thought of telling her that men who let their gonads lead them around were no longer considered helpless creatures—but then he thought of the portrait of Miranda, and his embarrassing reaction to it, and changed his mind. Besides, arguing with this old battleaxe would get him nowhere.
"How did her mother and stepfather react to the elopement, Miss Foster?"
"How would you expect them to react, sir? They were beside themselves with worry. Why, Mrs. Winthrop chartered a plane and flew right to Paris."
"And?"
"And, that's all I know. I explained to Mrs. Winthrop, before she left, that we could not possibly re-admit her daughter. She asked me to recommend another school and I did, a very fine academy in Chilton known to have excellent results with difficult students."
Conor frowned and thought back on his talk with Eva Winthrop. "She wasn't going to take Miranda home to live, then?"
"No, certainly not."
He nodded. Perhaps he'd misunderstood Eva. "So, you recommended a school, and...?"
Miss Foster's bony shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug. "The girl never put in an appearance."
"You've no idea what happened to her?"
"None."
Conor pushed back his chair. "Well, Miss Foster, thank you for your time."
"It's just a pity, really. Miranda was really quite bright." The headmistress stabbed her index finger against the records file. "Just look at these grades."
He looked at the neatly printed course names and the letters after them. A in math. A in science. In French. In philosophy.
"Philosophy?"
"Certainly." Miss Foster smiled. "We are great believers in the benefits of a well-rounded, classical education."
Conor hoped his smile was at least the equal of hers. "As in Plato?"
"We teach all the greats, sir. Plato. Kant..."
"Santayana?"
"By all means."
Conor nodded. That was it, then. The girl had sent the note, just to get under Eva's skin. He'd stake his reputation on it. He'd fly back to D.C., tell Thurston to phone his pal, Winthrop, make sounds of reassurance to him and his wife, and consider the matter closed.
He sighed, pushed back his chair, got to his feet and told himself he was happy to be done with the mess.
"Thank you very much for your time, Miss Foster."