Midway around the lake, more or less directly across from the guard station, stood Buffalo Bill’s mansion. I pulled up a circular drive, lit by a row of carriage lamps. A Hummer and two sports cars were parked on the verge; I pulled in behind them, and walked up a shallow step to ring the front doorbell.

A butler in a tailcoat answered the door. “The family are drinking coffee in the lounge. I will announce you.”

He led me down a long hall at a pace decorous enough for me to stare at the surroundings. The hall seemed to bisect the house, with salons, a conservatory, a music room, and who knows what all lying on either side. The same soft golds that I’d seen at the headquarters building dominated the decorating scheme here. We’re rich, the embroidered silk wall coverings proclaimed, everything we touch turns to gold.

Mr. William strode up the hall to meet me. My efforts at small talk, admiring the music room, the Dutch masters on one wall, the time it must take him to commute from here to South Chicago, only made him tighten his lips so much they looked like little circular pickles.

“You should take up the trumpet,” I said. “The way you purse up your lips all the time, those muscles will give you a really strong embouchure. Or maybe you already play, one of those nice twenty-dollar By-Smart trumpets, with lessons available on CD.”

“Yes, all the reports we’ve had done on you say you think you’re funny, and that it’s a handicap in your business,” Mr. William said coldly.

“Gosh, you’ve spent good By-Smart money having reports done on me? That makes me feel superimportant.” I could hear my voice going up half a register, my cheerleader chirp.

Before our witty exchange could escalate, the Buffalo’s personal assistant, Mildred, came clicking down the hall toward us on high alligator heels. So she really never left Buffalo Bill’s side. What did Mrs. Bysen think about her husband’s personal assistant living with him at home as well as at work?

“Mr. Bysen and Mr. William will talk to this person in Mr. Bysen’s study, Sneedham,” she said to the butler, avoiding my face.

Mrs. Bysen popped out of a side room to appear next to Mildred. Her gray curls were as tightly combed and groomed as they had been in church on Sunday, her green shantung dress as smooth as if invisible hands ironed it every time she sat down. But inside this formal attire, her face showed the benignity I’d observed on Sunday—except that in her home she had an assurance she’d lacked at the Mt. Ararat service.