I admired her courage: to be seventy-something and confront a young stranger takes a lot of guts. I could see the fear mingling with the determination in her pale eyes.

“I’m an officer of the court, ma’am. I would be happy to explain to the police why I want to speak to your—brother, is it?”

That was only partially true. Any licensed attorney is an officer of the court, but I much prefer never talking to the police, especially suburban cops, who hate urban detectives on principle. Fortunately, Miss Chigwell, impressed (I hoped) by my professional demeanor, didn’t demand a badge or a certificate. She compressed her lips until they almost disappeared into her angular face and went back to the house.

I had barely settled back in my car when she returned to the walk and beckoned me vigorously. When I joined her at the side of the house she said abruptly:

“He’ll see you. He was here all along, of course. I don’t like telling his lies for him, but after all these years it’s hard to start saying no. He’s my brother. My twin, so I got into too many bad habits too long ago. But you don’t want to hear all that.”

My admiration for her increased, but I didn’t know how to express it without sounding patronizing. I followed her silently into the house. We went through a passageway that looked onto the garage. A dinghy was leaned neatly on its side next to the open door. Beyond it was a tidy array of gardening tools.

Ms. Chigwell whisked me along to the living room. It was not large, but gracefully proportioned, with chintz furniture facing a rose-marble fireplace. While she went for her brother I prowled around a bit.

A handsome old clock stood in the center of the mantel, the kind that has an enamel face and brass pendulum. On either side of it were porcelain figures, shepherd girls, lute players. A few old family photos stood in the recessed shelves in the corner, one showing a little girl in a starched sailor dress standing proudly with her father in front of a sailboat.

When Ms. Chigwell returned with her brother, it was obvious they’d been arguing. His cheeks, softer than her angular face, were flushed and his lips were compressed. She started to introduce me, but he cut her off sharply.

“I don’t need you to oversee my affairs, Clio. I’m perfectly able to look after myself.”

“I’d like to see you do so, then,” she said bitterly. “If you’re in some kind of trouble with the law, I want to hear what it is now, not next month or whenever you feel brave enough to tell me about it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I seem to have caused a problem, most inadvertently. There’s no trouble with the law that I know of, Miss Chigwell. Merely, I need some information on some people who used to work at the Xerxes plant in South Chicago.”