For two months we were completely… She stopped and her eyes closed. In a moment they opened. Then was nothing for me but us, and I think for him too. I'm sure. After that I simply don't know, I only know it wasn't the same. During that year, the last year of his life, he may have had one woman, or two, or a dozen I just don't know. He could have had, I know that. So the baby what did I say? It's likely that it could have happened. You understand?

Wolfe nodded. So far. And your problem?

The baby, of course. I intended to have one, or two or three, I sincerely did, and Dick wanted to, but I wanted to wait. I put it off. When he died that was hard, maybe the hardest, that he had wanted me to have a baby and I had put it off. Now there is one, and I have it. She pointed at the slip of paper on Wolfe's desk. I think what that says is right. I think a boy should live in his father's house, and certainly he should have his father's name. But the problem is, was Richard Valdon this baby's father? She gestured. There!

Wolfe snorted. Pfui. Never to be solved and you know it. Homer said it: no man can know who was his father. Shakespeare said it: it is a wise father that knows his own child. I can't help you, madam. No one can.

She smiled. I can say pfui' too. Of course you can help me. I know you can't prove that Dick was the father, but you can find out who put the baby in my vestibule, and who its mother is, and then we can Here. She got her bag and opened it. I have figured it out. She produced another slip of paper, not the same size or kind. The doctor said the baby was four months old, that evening, the day it came, May twentieth, so I used that date. She looked at the paper. So it was born about January twentieth, so it was conceived about April twentieth, last year. When you know who the mother is you can find out about her and Dick, how sure it is, or anyway how likely it is, that they were together then.