Black Dog

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Stone Barrington sat at his desk in his office on the ground floor of his Turtle Bay townhouse, finishing a stack of work that his secretary, Joan Robertson, had created to keep him busy. He was a senior partner at Woodman & Weld, a prestigious firm housed nearby in the Seagram Building, on Park Avenue at Fifty-Third Street. But he preferred to work in his home office, because people didn’t wander up and down the halls asking him to work on the accounts of various clients.

Joan rapped on his door and came into his office. “I have a new client for you,” she said. “Don’t groan and roll your eyes.”

Stone stifled a groan and tried to keep his eyes straight ahead. “All right, what waif have you picked up on the street?”

“She’s not a waif, she’s an aunt. Mine. My mother’s younger sister. Her name is Annetta Charles.”

“Why isn’t her name Robertson, like yours?”

“Because she had the wit to marry a very rich man named Edwin Charles.”

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