“Pfui. You could have phoned.”

Of course that left him wide open. He was merely being childish, since my phoning to tell him I had changed my program for the evening wouldn’t have kept Lily Rowan from interrupting his reading. I admit it isn’t noble to jab a man when his arms are hanging, but having just taught Lily a lesson I thought I might as well teach him one too, and did so. I may have been a little too enthusiastic. Anyway, when I left to go up to bed we didn’t say good night.

But it wouldn’t be true to say that we were not speaking Monday morning. When he came down from the plant rooms at eleven o’clock I said good morning distinctly, and he muttered it as he crossed to his desk. By the time Otis Jarrell arrived at noon, by appointment, we had exchanged at least twenty words, maybe more. I remember that at one point he asked what the bank balance was and I told him. But the air was frosty, and when I answered the doorbell and ushered Otis Jarrell into the office, and to the red leather chair at the end of Wolfe’s desk, Wolfe practically beamed at him as he inquired, “Well, sir, what is your problem?”

For him that was gushing. It was for my benefit. The idea was to show me that he was actually in the best of humor, nothing wrong with him at all, that if his manner with me was somewhat reserved it was only because I had been very difficult, and it was a pleasure, by contrast, to make contact with a fellow being who would appreciate amenities.

He was aware that the fellow being, Otis Jarrell, had at least one point in his favor: he was rated upwards of thirty million dollars.