At eight twenty, Frank was in the DeLuca estate breakfast room, sorting the morning mail into three neat piles.

He had a receipt beside his plate and kept moving it whenever another envelope landed near it.

I sat opposite him and placed a scrap of paper on the table.

I had copied the file number from the cream envelope before leaving home.

“Do you recognize this?”

He put on his reading glasses and looked at the number.

“Where did you get that?”

“From an attorney’s envelope that was left for me.”