I took the luggage with me to the dining room, set it down against the wall, and approached the table. There he was, floating in clouds of bliss. He looked from the luggage tome.
“What’s that? Those aren’t your bags.”
“No, sir,” I agreed. “They are the property of an object I brought with me named Rose Lasher, who may help you hang onto those orchids. She is bereaved and hungry and I’m hungry. Shall I stay with her in the office—”
“Hungry? Bring her in here. There’s plenty.”
I went to the office and returned with her. She had stopped crying but sure was forlorn.
“Miss Lasher,” I said, “this is Nero Wolfe. He never discusses business at the table, so we’ll eat first and go into things later.” I held a chair for her.
“I don’t want to eat,” she said in a thin voice. “I can’t eat.”
She ate seven sausages, which was nothing against her grief. Fritz’s saucisse minuit would make Gandhi a gourmet.
Chapter 6
And now,” Wolfe demanded, “what is Miss Lasher here for?”