Samuel arrived carrying a narrow leather case.

He was in his early fifties, with a plain gray tie and a face that gave away little until he began asking questions.

“May I see the number?”

I handed him the scrap of paper, then the envelope itself.

He compared the number with a small notebook he had brought along.

He did not open the envelope or run a finger under its seal.

“This belongs to an older legal matter involving Renata’s adoption,” he said.