I was more or less taking it for granted that my call on Naomi Karn that afternoon would add one more to the number, but I was wrong. As the maid escorted me through the large and luxurious foyer of the apartment on the twelfth floor, on Park Avenue near 74th—where I had got admitted by saying I was sent by Mr. Glenn Prescott—and ushered me into a cool dim room with cool summer covers on the furniture, and I got close enough for a good look at the woman standing by the piano bench, I saw right away that I was wrong. She smiled. I wouldn’t say she smiled at me, she just smiled. “Mr. Goodwin? Sent by Mr. Prescott?” “That’s right, Miss Karn.” “I suppose I should have refused to see you. Only I don’t like to do that—it’s so stuffy.” “Why should you have refused to see me?” “Because, if you were sent by Mr. Prescott, you’ve come to bully me. Haven’t you?” “Bully you about what?” “Oh, come now.” She smiled again. I waited a second, saw that she wasn’t going to add to it, and said, “As a matter of fact, I wasn’t sent by Prescott.
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