M-m, Wolfe said. I liked one of his books, with reservations. How old was he when he died?

Forty-two.

How old are you?

That was for my benefit. He had a triple conviction: that a) his animus toward women made it impossible for him to judge any single specimen; that b) I needed only an hour with any woman alive to tag her; and that c) he could help out by asking some blunt impertinent question, his favorite one being how old are you. It's hopeless to try to set him right.

At that, the way Lucy Valdon took it was a clue. She smiled and said, Old enough, plenty old enough. I'm twenty-six. Old enough to know when I need help and here I am. It's about it's extremely confidential. She glanced at me.

Wolfe nodded. It usually is. My ears are Mr. Goodwin's and his are mine, professionally. As for confidence, I don't suppose you have committed a major crime?

She smiled again. It came quick and went quick, but she meant it. I wouldn't have the nerve. No, no crime. I want you to find somebody for me.

I thought, uh-huh, here we go. Cousin Mildred is missing and Aunt Amanda has asked her rich niece to hire a detective. But she went on: It's a little well, it's kind of fantastic. I have a baby, and I want to know who the mother is. As I said, this is confidential, but it's not really a secret. My maid and my cook know about it, and my lawyer, and two of my friends, but that's all, because I'm not sure I'm going to keep it the baby.

Wolfe was frowning at her, and no wonder. I'm not a judge of babies, madam.

Of course not. What I want but I must tell you. I've had it two weeks. Two weeks ago Sunday, May twentieth, the phone rang and I answered it, and a voice said there was something in my vestibule, and I went to look, and there it was on the door, wrapped in a blanket.