The man at the wheel seemed to shrink. His coat was suddenly too large for his shoulders. It seemed difficult for him to breathe. “I didn’t know there was a child. Believe me.” He took a bottle from the glove compartment. “After that, I need a drink.”

“You might ask if I cared for one,” Grace said.

He handed her the bottle. It was dimpled bottle Scotch, and tasted as good as it smelled. Grace drank sparingly, then corked and returned the bottle to the glove compartment.

Although he couldn’t coax the words from his mouth, he thought how he’d been standings since he was nice months old. It occurred to him he was drunk as a flock of bridesmaids. He attempted to show how good he was at standing, but he couldn’t find the ground beneath him, couldn’t feel his legs.

As always, Siri’s travel baggage amounted to a small cloth shoulder bag with wool bobbles dangling from it. But everything he needed on a journey could fit comfortable into that bag. This evening it was oddly bulky. He reached into it and produced a bottle of whiskey, and not just any whiskey: Glenfiddich. Daeng welcomed it into her arms like a mother being handed her newborn for the first time.

“Quite a coincidence,” I said. “I have a present for you.”

She pressed my arm lightly. “You’re a psychic. I love presents. Let’s have a drink on it.”

She poured some bourbon into a pair of thin jiggers and we touched glasses. It was fine bourbon. The distiller hadn’t become impatient. It was smooth as a hummingbird’s wing. She turned to me with a shine in her eyes.

“I’m terribly excited. What is it?”

It was the kind of practice that needed plenty of front and Edward St. John Avery had it. A corner office, immense and square, sumptuous but dignified, with a sedate unit against the wall that he could magically transform into a glittering bar. Important clients are often weaned on spirituous liquids.

We were in the mood for Italian food and I knew just the right place on Thompson Street in the Village. It was unpretentious and seldom crowded, but the cooking was superlative and the house wine fair. Between courses we read the paper.

“Anything special we’re looking for?” Susan wanted to know.

“Just keep your eyes peeled for news about any of the principals in the case.”

We kept at it after espresso and a shot of grappa.

String instruments only in the orchestra, no brass, Hazel created a mild stir from the male contingent as we followed the major dee to a corner table. He hovered solicitously, pad ready in his hand.

“Saratoga cocktail,” Hazel told him.

I looked at her curiously. “What’s that?”

“Brandy, bitters, maraschino, and pineapple.”

One man had on an almost new brown frock coat with a black velvet collar, and white trousers. Two had blue swallow-tailed coats with brass buttons; and a fourth, a dashing young lawyer’s clerk from Clement’s Inn, was absolutely stirring a mixture, which he called a Mint Julep, with a yellow kid glove dangling out of his hand.