“Then I’ll put one to you. Suppose these things: that with me as intermediary, your father has arranged to make available to you a considerable sum of money; that he is not in a position to disclose himself to you and cannot ever be expected to do so; that he has put it wholly within my discretion whether you shall be told his name and your mother’s name; and that the circumstances are such that it will be a deuce of a job to keep you from guessing his name and guessing it right. Supposing all that, here’s something for you to think over.”
Wolfe pointed a finger at her. “Do you want me to tell you the names or not?”
“I don’t need to think it over. I want you to tell me.”
“That’s an impulse.”
“It is not an impulse. Good lord, an impulse? If you only knew what I — for years—” Beulah made a little gesture. “I want to know.”
“What if your father is — say, a convicted pickpocket?”
“I don’t care what he is! I want to know!”
“Then you should. Mr. Perrit, your father, died last night.” Wolfe inclined his head toward a window. “Out there on the sidewalk.”
“I knew it,” Beulah said calmly.
“The devil you did!”