My office lived up to my fondest dream of Winnie. It was an ingenious blend of the 1870's and functional furniture--like a cocktail of port wine and vodka. There were electric clocks, a silenced stock-ticker in a glass-covered mahogany coffin, an elaborate Sheraton radio with short-wave reception, tuned in on WQXR, and desks and chairs and divans and a really good steel engraving showing General Grant receiving Lee's surrender at Appomattox Court House, with a chart underneath to explain who was who in the picture. The desk I was glad to note, was bare except for an electric clock-calendar which told me that it was 3:12 p.m. of April 4, 1945, and a handsome combination humidor, cigarette case and automatic lighter in aluminum and synthetic tortoise-shell. A glance out the window gave me a reassuring glimpse of the spire of Trinity Church. There was a single typed memo on the glass top of the desk, which read: "Mr. Harcourt, 10:13 a.m. Would not state business. Will wait." I pushed one of the array of buttons concealed underneath the edge of the desk and a door opened to admit a largish blonde in a tight-fitting sweater. "Yes, Mr. Tompkins?" "Please have Mr. Harcourt sent in," I said, "And when he comes, bring your notebook and take a stenographic record of our conversation and--er--what's your name?" She raised her well-plucked eyebrows. "I'm Eleanor Roosevelt, my parents named me Arthurjean--after both of them--Arthurjean--Miss Briggs to you!" "Very well, Miss Briggs, tell Mr. Harcourt I'll see him now." A moment later, she reappeared holding a card in her fingers as though it was a live cockroach. "Sure you want to see this?" she asked. The card read: "Mr. A. J. Harcourt, Special Agent. Federal Bureau of Investigation, U. S. Department of Justice, U. S. Court House, Foley Square, New York 23, N. Y." "Of course," I replied, "I've been expecting him for some time." A. J. Harcourt was neat but not gaudy: a clean-cut, Hart, Shaffner and Marx tailored man of about thirty-five, with that indefinable family resemblance to J. Edgar Hoover which always worries me about the F.B.I. "Good afternoon, Mr. Harcourt," I said pleasantly, "and what can I do for the F.B.I.?" Harcourt shook my hand, took a seat, refused a cigarette and cast a doubtful glance over his shoulder at Arthurjean Briggs, who was working semi-silently away at a stenotype machine. "Oh, that's my secretary," I explained. "I always have her take a record of important conversations in this office. I hope the machine doesn't disturb you, Mr. Harcourt." "If it's all right with you it's all right with me," he said grudgingly. "I thought perhaps you'd rather have this private." "Not in the least," I replied. "Miss Briggs is the soul of discretion and I can imagine nothing we could talk about that I wouldn't want her to hear."