The woman bites her lip, perplexed. “It’s just that Mr. Hocking asked a favor of my husband and he’s been gone on this errand longer than I expected. I’m . . . I’m getting worried.”

I don’t know how I can be of help and yet I feel compassion for this woman, who seems ready to collapse with exhaustion.

“Please come in and have some tea and I’ll see if there isn’t some way I can be of help to you.”

The woman hesitates a moment and then steps into the foyer.

“I’m so sorry to be a bother,” she says. “I’m only . . . I think something might have happened.”

“’Tis no bother at all. I’ve already got the kettle on.”

The woman exhales heavily, a hand resting on her abdomen. “You’re very kind.”

“It’s truly no inconvenience, Mrs.—?” I have already forgotten her name.

“Bigelow. Belinda Bigelow.”

I freeze in place with my hand on the door to close it. “Pardon? What did you say your name is?”

“Belinda Bigelow.”

How extraordinary. Belinda isn’t that common a name, is it?

“That’s a beautiful name. My husband has a cousin named Belinda,” I manage, as I push the door shut.

“It was my mother’s favorite name. At least that’s what my father always told me. I never knew her. She died when I was a baby.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. May I take your wrap?”

The woman takes off her shawl and hands it to me, and I hang it on the hall tree.

“Did you say Mr. Hocking asked a favor of your husband? James, is it?” I ask as I motion her into the sitting room.

“Yes, but I don’t know what the favor was.”

“Please have a seat,” I tell her. “Does Mr. Bigelow also work for the insurance company?”

Belinda Bigelow gives me a puzzled look as she sits down on the sofa. “Pardon?”

“Does your husband also work for the insurance company?” I take the chair across from her.

“No. He’s a land surveyor. Are you saying that’s what your husband does? Works in insurance?”

“Yes,” I answer, wondering what it was Martin asked this Mr. Bigelow to do for him. Is he thinking of buying some property? Maybe he is thinking of buying us a place in the country, perhaps in a town closer to his route.

“That’s . . . that’s strange,” Belinda says. “James said your husband is in real estate development.”

I stare at my guest for a moment. Perhaps there are two Martin Hockings in San Francisco. There have to be. This poor woman has the wrong one.

“I wonder if we are talking about the same man,” I say with a smile. “Have you ever met this Mr. Hocking you’re looking for?”

“No, I only know James said he had something important he had to do for him. He thought he’d be back two days ago. He . . . he had your address in his coat pocket.”