The woman on Stone’s right was deep in conversation with Bartlett, to the exclusion of Stone, who had to occupy himself with the dinner companion on his left, a handsome woman in her seventies.

“And who are you?” she asked him, with a touch of imperiousness.

“My name is Stone Barrington.”

“And how do you know the Wilkeses?” There was suspicion in the question.

“My companion for the evening is a friend of theirs,” Stone said, nodding in Callie’s direction.

“Goodness,” the woman said, taking in Callie. “One wouldn’t think she would need a walker.”

“A walker?” Stone asked.

“Isn’t that what you are?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do, darling. My name is Lila Baldwin. Perhaps you could give me your card, for the future?” She nodded toward her own date, a sleekly handsome man in his thirties, who sat next to Callie. “I’m afraid I’ve had about all of Carlton that I can bear for one season.”

Stone gave the woman his card, then the penny dropped. The woman thought he was for hire as an escort, maybe more. “If you should ever need an attorney, please call me,” he said.

“Attorney?” She looked at the card, holding it at arm’s length. She apparently didn’t want to be seen in her glasses.

“Woodman and Weld, in New York,” Stone said.

She looked at him more closely, squinting. “Your firm did my estate planning,” she said. “A lovely man named William Eggers.”

“I know him well,” Stone said.

“You don’t look like an estate planner,” she said, accusingly.

“No, that’s a little out of my line,” he replied. “I’m more of a generalist.”

“And what sort of problem would I hire you for?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing specific. If you should have a problem of any sort, call Bill Eggers, and he’ll know if I’m your man.”

“Oh, I think you could be my man, no matter what my problem was,” she said.

Stone was trying to come up with an answer to that when his tiny cell phone, clipped to his waistband, began to vibrate silently. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He stood up and walked toward the dining room door, fishing out the phone and opening it, but keeping it concealed in his hand until he was out in the hall.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Bob Berman said.

“Have you got something?”

“This guy’s an amateur,” Bob said. “His identity is paper thin. There’s nothing in his credit report going back more than two and a half years. His driver’s license is green as grass, and he’s only got one credit card, one of those that’s guaranteed by a savings account. No mortgage or bank loans on the record, only a car loan, from a high-interest loan company.”