The voice on the telephone was deep for a woman’s, sad and slow. It asked: “Is this really Mr. Gamadge himself talking?”
“This is Gamadge.”
“I’m Harriet Leeder—Mrs. Clayborn Leeder. It’s such a private matter that I shouldn’t have liked to give anybody else my name. Might I ask you not to mention the fact that I called to anybody at all, whether you are able to help me or not?”
“I won’t mention it.”
“You don’t know me, but friends of yours do. I haven’t told them anything—only that I needed advice. It’s a family thing, and rather horrid. From what they say, I really think you may be my only hope.”
Gamadge had not been giving his full attention to the speaker. He stood at the telephone table in the hall, looking through the double doorway of the library; and the scene he watched was nerve-racking. His young assistant, David Malcolm, stood in the middle of the room with an arm upraised above his head, and on his palm the Gamadge baby was balanced as a waiter balances a tray. The baby, mildly interested as usual, made swimming motions with its arms and legs.
Gamadge said loudly: “Put that thing down before you break it.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked the telephone.
“I beg yours.” Gamadge waited until the baby had been lowered to the rug, and then apologized again: “I’m awfully sorry. I was interrupted.”
“We can’t be overheard?”
“Absolutely not.” “I know I shouldn’t be taking a moment of your time, much less asking you to come to see me. Our friends say that you’re just back from Europe, and that
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