She looked at him, and opened her mouth and closed it again. She said, “That hadn’t occurred to me. Perhaps he would. I don’t know.”
Wolfe nodded. “Yes, a sentimental romantic might do that. Now, the second question. Why did you come to see me? What do you want me to do?”
She gave him her eyes straight. “I want you to find proof of Paul Chapin’s guilt, and see that he pays the penalty. I can pay you for it. You told my uncle ten thousand dollars. I can pay that.”
“Do you have a personal hostility for Mr. Chapin?”
“Personal?” She frowned. “Is there any other kind of hostility except personal? I don’t know. I hate Paul Chapin, and have hated him for years, because I loved my uncle and my sister Ruth loved him and he was a fine sensitive generous man, and Paul Chapin was ruining his life. Ruined his life... oh... now...”
“There, Miss Hibbard. Please. You did not intend to engage me to find your uncle? You had no hope of that?”
“I think not. Oh, if you do! If you do that... I think I have no hope, I think I dare not. But then—even if you find him, there will still be Paul Chapin.”
“Just so.” Wolfe sighed, and turned his eyes to me. “Archie. Please wrap up Miss Hibbard’s file for her. If I have not placed the contents in their proper compartments, she will forgive me. The paper and string are intact? Good.”
She was protesting, “But you will need that — I’ll leave it—”
“No, Miss Hibbard. I’m sorry. I can’t undertake your commission.”