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My grin felt better. I said, "You don’t have to change the subject. I wouldn’t make the mistake of calling you generous even if you said to double it; you’d still be getting a bargain. Do you know what Anna will do with it? Buy herself a husband. Look at all the good you’re doing."

"Confound it. Don’t give her anything. Tell her the money cannot be found."

"No, sir. I’ll give her the money and let her dig her own grave. I’m not violent, the way you are, and I don’t put myself up as a substitute for fate."

Wolfe opened his eyes. He had been drowsy for three days, and I thought it was about time something woke him up. He murmured, "Do you think you’re saying something, Archie?"

"Yes, sir. I’m asking where you got the breezy notion of killing E.D. Kimball."

"Where his son got the notion, you mean?"

‘No, you. Don’t quibble. You killed him."

Wolfe shook his head. "Wrong, Archie. I quibble? E.D. Kimball was killed by the infant son whom he deserted sitting on the floor among his toys in a pool of his mother’s blood.-If you please. Properly speaking, E.D. Kimball was not killed last Wednesday morning, but on Sunday June fourth. Through one of the unfortunate accidents by which blind chance interferes with the natural processes of life and death, Barstow died instead. It is true that I helped to remedy that error. I had Durkin deliver to Manuel Kimball copies of our evidence against him, and I telephoned Manuel Kimball that he was surrounded, on the earth and above the earth. I left it to nature to proceed, having ascertained that E.D. Kimball was at home and would not leave that morning."

I said, "You told me once that I couldn’t conceal truth by building a glass house around it. What are you trying it for? You killed him."

Wolfe’s cheeks folded. He poured another glass of beer and leaned back again and watched the foam. When nothing was left of it but a thin white rim he looked at me and sighed.