“Excuse me, Wolfe put in politely but firmly. “You wanted to consult me about your husband. You say you're divorced?

“Certainly not! I- She caught herself up. “Oh. This is my second husband. I only wanted you to understand.

Til try. Let's have him now.

“Barry Rackham, she said, pronouncing the name as if she held the copyright on it, or at least a lease on subsidiary rights. “He played football at Yale and then had a job in Wall Street until the war came. At the end of the war he was a major, which wasn't very far to get in nearly four years. We were married in

1946-three years and seven months ago. He is ten years younger than I am.

Mrs Barry Rackham paused, her eyes fixed on Wolfe's face as if challenging it for comment, but the challenge was declined. Wolfe merely prodded her with a murmur.

“And?

“I suppose, she said as if conceding a point, “there is no one in New York who does not take it for granted that he married me simply for my money. They all know more about it than I do, because I have never asked him, and he is the only one that knows for sure. I know one thing: it does not make him uncomfortable to look at me. I know that for sure because I'm very sensitive about it, I'm neurotic about it, and I would know it the first second he felt that way. Of course he knows what I look like, he knows how ugly I am, he can't help that, but it doesn't annoy him a particle, not even-

She stopped and was blushing. Calvin Leeds coughed and shifted in his chair.

Wolfe closed his eyes and after a moment opened them again. I didn't look away from her because when she blushed I began to feel a little uncomfortable myself, and I wanted to see if I could keep her from knowing it.