The voice on the telephone was deep for a woman&rsquo;s, sad and slow. It asked: &ldquo;Is this really Mr. Gamadge himself talking?&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;This is Gamadge.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;I&rsquo;m Harriet Leeder&mdash;Mrs. Clayborn Leeder. It&rsquo;s such a private matter that I shouldn&rsquo;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?&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;I won&rsquo;t mention it.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know me, but friends of yours do. I haven&rsquo;t told them anything&mdash;only that I needed advice. It&rsquo;s a family thing, and rather horrid. From what they say, I really think you may be my only hope.&rdquo;<br />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.<br />Gamadge said loudly: &ldquo;Put that thing down before you break it.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;I beg your pardon?&rdquo; asked the telephone.<br />&ldquo;I beg yours.&rdquo; Gamadge waited until the baby had been lowered to the rug, and then apologized again: &ldquo;I&rsquo;m awfully sorry. I was interrupted.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;We can&rsquo;t be overheard?&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Absolutely not.&rdquo; &ldquo;I know I shouldn&rsquo;t be taking a moment of your time, much less asking you to come to see me. Our friends say that you&rsquo;re just back from Europe, and that