Whittaker Johnson hid his anger and jealousy beneath a careless smile. Kennan was no longer a plotter consulting with his associates. He behaved like a master issuing orders to his subordinates.

  “Try not to miss a word of what I’m saying,” he said, turning his keen glance to Allen. He, then, turned to Johnson. “Can you persuade Lord Swaffham to go to Dorset on Saturday and take Keresley with him?”

  “I may be able to do so.”

  “I want a “yes” or “no.” Can you or can you not make this happen?”

  “Yes, then.”

  “Alright. On your way to Dorset, you must stop at Hotel Grand Bournemouth.”

  “Hotel Grand Bournemouth,” repeated Johnson, as he wrote down the name.

  “The day you arrive in Dorset,” continued Kennan, “you should do very little. Your time should be taken up in resting after your journey and perhaps you can make a few preliminary inquiries. It will be on Sunday that you must go to the hospital together and make the same inquiries, which the lord has formerly made by himself. The young governor is a man of good morals and education and he will do all that he can to be useful to you. Through him you will be able to obtain the names and towns of the mothers and the dates on which they left the hospital. He will tell you that they have never been able to find any of the parents of the children born that day. He can describe the mothers and the fathers of the children though. One of the children born that night was a girl, so you can disregard her and her parents. One of the fathers he will describe to you will be a tall, well-built gentleman, looking about twenty-five years of age. He was a seaman most likely, with a huge tattoo of a ship on his arm. He looked intelligent, with bright eyes, full health and good looks. On that day he had on blue and white striped trousers, a gray blouse, a hat and a spotted silk cravat. Then to help you still further in your researches he will add that the day after the night of the birth he saw them step into a black car and drive away. He doesn’t remember the number plate.”

  Whittaker Johnson watched Kennan as he was speaking with an increasing expression of hate.

  “You’re well informed, on my word,” he said, smiling.

  “I have been working on this endeavor for years,” answered Kennan. “So after the visit to the hospital you go back to the hotel. There you talk about a plan of action. Propose the following plan. It’s an excellent one.”

  “I have to propose the plan to the lord?”

  “Yes. You propose to divide Bournemouth and its suburbs in a certain number of circles and then visit every place where a young mother, just having given birth will go to recuperate. They could’ve been locals, in that case you need to find a house or neighbors or family or they could’ve been visitors and in that case you look at hotels and the sort. Let Swaffham go to work in this fashion. As neither of you know Bournemouth you will require someone to act as a guide.”

  “That sounds plausible.”

  “Here, my dear Whittaker, we must leave nothing to chance, because I’m not quite omnipotent. There are nine chances out of ten that the hotel owner will advise you to avail yourself of the services of a man named Ferguson, who acts as a concierge to the hotel.”

  “What do I say to him?”

  “Nothing. He understands his role in this scheme completely. After taking care of these issues, you begin your search on Monday morning in the suburb called Sopley, under the guidance of Ferguson. Leave all responsibility to Keresley, but make sure that Lord Swaffham accompanies you. Ask the locals a series of questions, like, “We’re in search of a mother and a father, who had a boy born at such and such date, give or take a week. And a reward of ten thousand shilling is offered to anyone, who can lead us to them.”

  Here Johnson interrupted Kennan.

  “Wait a moment. I like your formulation. I will write it down.”

  “On Monday,” continued Joseph Kennan, “you will not make much progress. For the next few days you won’t make much progress. But Saturday is the big day. Prepare yourself for a big surprise. On that day Ferguson will take you to a large house, on the shore. This house belongs to a man named Wright, who lives there with his wife and his two daughters. You will find these worthy denizens at dinner. They will offer you tea and you will accept. At the words you say you will find that they will glance at each other in a meaning way and the wife will say, “Bless my soul! Surely you must be talking about my cousin and her husband.”

  As Joseph Kennan went on describing his plans, his face beamed with superiority and power. His voice was clear and his attitude full of authority. He had no problem to convince the minds of those, who were seated at the table in front of him, listening to him. He spoke of what would happen as if it had already happened. Whittaker was not convinced, however.

  “Oh! The wife will say this, will she?”

  “Yes, exactly this and nothing else. Then the husband will explain that they had given temporary refuge to his wife’s cousin and her husband, who had lost their fortune on the stock market and had been forced to beg for food and shelter. While she arrived at their house they had found out she was soon to have a child and had not the heart to send her away. You will offer to read him your description of the mother and the father, but she will volunteer her own, which you will find to tally exactly with the one you have. Then Mr. Wright will tell you what an excellent family they were and how the house seemed quite another place as long as they stayed there. The whole family will join in singing their praises. The father was so good-tempered, so obliging and educated. And then they will cry and tell you that the mother had died not three years later and the young son was being raised by the father, who had left their town in the presence of a local beer brewer and they had subsequently lost all contact with him.”

  Johnson was waiting for a conclusion, which did not come and said, in a rather disappointed tone, “But what next or is Wright’s story all there is to it.”

  Kennan raised his hand to stop all immediate criticism and to ask for further patience on the part of his listeners.

  “Permit me to go on,” he said. “You have no way of knowing what to do now, but Keresley knows everything. He knows the destination and he knows how to spin a yarn to get to his intended destination.”

  “I think that you overrate Keresley’s talents.”

  “My dear fellow…” said Keresley.

  “Not a bit. Each man specializes in his own line of business. But if he wanders off the course too much, feel free to get him back to it. In this you must act tactfully. His first step will be to take you to the office of the mayor of the township, where a register of licenses is kept. There you will find that the name of the brewer was Damon McDaniels, nicknamed the Red Fox.”

  Johnson rapidly wrote down these names.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “I can hardly follow you.”

  After a short pause, Kennan continued talking.

  “A thorough examination of the book will prove to you that no other brewer was established at the place during that past five years and it’s clear that it must have been the Red Fox with whom the young man and his son went away. You will then find out the man’s description at the address mentioned in the book. Damon McDaniels, born in Wolverhampton. Age, forty-seven. Height, six feet two inches. Eyes, small and gray, rather near-sighted. Hair, dark. The third finger of his left hand was cut off at the first joint. After learning this, you cannot confuse him with any other man of his profession.”

  “I will now be able to find him,” mumbled Johnson.

  “But that’s not your business. Keresley will put on an air of the greatest importance and appear delighted at the news you have discovered at the office of the mayor. He will tell you and the lord that the search in Dorset is over and that it will be for the best to return to London immediately. Of course, you will not object. Talk the lord into giving Wright and Ferguson a nice reward. Whatever you do, do not leave him behind you. I advise you to start for London without delay. Keresley, on your return, will take a few days and then take you and the lord to Company House, where Damon McDaniels will have been registered, like other men of his profession. You will discover that McDaniels now keeps a pub on Milton Road.”

  “Slow down a bit,” said Johnson. “Let me take down the address.”

  “When you go there, you will immediately recognize McDaniels by the loss of his finger. He will concur that the young man and his son followed him and they stayed together for ten months as they tried to raise the funds to start a brewery in London. The gentleman was a nice enough fellow, but as proud as a peacock and as lazy as a mouse. He became good friends with a lorry driver, named Obie Anderson. There was a falling out between the gentleman and the brewer and the gentleman and his son went off with the lorry driver, who promised him work. Now you will want to know what has become of Obie Anderson. McDaniels will get tired of these questions and behave violently. You will threaten to have his liquor license revoked and he will calm down and become as mild as a tomcat on a boat. He will promise to see what he can do for you. A week later he will tell you that Obie Anderson is in hospital and he will give you the name and the address of the place.”

  His audience listened silently to his words. His story seemed made up on the spot, but all knew Kennan was not the man to talk without reason. So it must’ve been the culmination of years of research and work.

  “Obie Anderson,” continued Kennan, “is a sly old dog. You will find an old, rickety, blue-eyed man at the hospital and be sure to remind Lord Swaffham not to put too much trust in him. This wily old man will tell you of all the sacrifices he made for the gentleman and his son. He will tell you that he often went without his beer and tobacco in order to build a transport company to provide employment for the young gentleman, so he could give his son a good education. He will tell you that the young father wanted to get his son in the School of Music, because he possesses a great talent and his father cherished the hope of one day seeing him a great composer, like Mozart. I expect this to melt the heart of your client, because he will see that his son has worth and on the strength of this testimony I project that he will almost certainly accept the child as his son.”

  Johnson looked at Kennan’s face. He tried to decipher the meaning hidden behind the inscrutable expression, but in vain.

  “Let us go on,” said the solicitor, impatiently. “All that you told me I will find out myself in the course of the inquiry.”

  “If your mind is so brilliantly attuned as to require no further explanation from me,” said Kennan, “you will, I hope, allow me to continue for the benefit of our young friend, Mr. Acheson. You will feel compassion, when the lorry driver tells you of his sacrifices and his deteriorating health. He will describe the father becoming a lorry driver for their small company and his subsequent move to Lillie Road. You better listen to the old man as he continues to grumble on, as you will recognize in his bitterness the disappointed speculator. He will tell of the young gentleman receiving a small bank loan, buying his own lorry and abandoning him to his fate. He will call him an ungrateful villain. He will confess to you that he subsists entirely on the proceeds from the sale of his lorry. You will urge the lord to compensate him generously for his information and you will, then, hurry off to Lillie Road. The owner of the house will tell you that some two years ago he got rid of the lorry driver, who had dared to get up and wake up the whole neighborhood at four in the morning with his loud lorry. You will ask him where he went to and he will give you the address of the young man’s fiancée, Mrs. Delaford, a young divorcee, residing in Cranley Gardens. This lady will tell you that she does not know the address of her former fiancé, but that he used to live at Glebe Place. From Glebe Place you will be sent to Ursula Street and from there to Smedley Street.”

  Kennan stopped, took a long breath and laughed inwardly.

  “Rest assured, my dear Whittaker,” he said. “You have almost reached the end of your long journey. The landlady at the house in Smedley Street is the kindest woman in the world. She will tell you that the lorry driver still retains his rooms in the house, but that he no longer resides there, because he was lucky enough last month to marry the daughter of a rich industrialist. The young lady, Miss Carey Lett, saw him on the street and fell in love with him.”

  A clever man like Whittaker Johnson Esq. should have foreseen what was coming, but he had not and at this conclusion he sprang up.

  “Yes, my dear fellow,” said Joseph Kennan, with the air of a conqueror, “Lord Swaffham will then drag you off to our good friend Jeff Lett and there you will find our young associate Allen Acheson, the happy husband of the beautiful Miss Carey and their five year old son, Marcus.”

  Kennan sat down and adjusted his glasses more firmly on his nose.

  “Now, my dear Whittaker, show the decency of your character by congratulating our friend Allen and his young son, the future Viscount of Swaffham.”

  Earl Keresley, of course, knew what was coming. He knew the plot as he had co-written it, but he was just as excited as the others to hear it at first rehearsal.

  “Bravo!” he said, clapping his hands together. “Bravo, my dear Joseph, you have excelled yourself!”

  Worried and perplexed as Allen had been, when Kennan concluded the exposition of his plans, he sank back in his chair. He was both sick in the stomach and excited at the same time.

  “Yes,” said Kennan in a clear voice, “I accept your praise without any hint of false modesty. We have no reason to fear any intervention or an act of Providence, which sometimes lets fall a grain of sand, which stops the working of the machine and turns hope into despair. Lord Swaffham can have no suspicion after these very precise investigations. But to remove the faintest element of doubt, I have an additional plan. We will make him retrace his path. Our associate Allen Acheson, father of the future viscount, son-in-law of Jeff Lett, the husband of Carey, will be recognized in Smedley Street, Ursula Street and Glebe Place. He will be welcomed in Lillie Road. Obie Anderson will embrace his ungrateful former employee. Damon McDaniels will remind him of their plans to build a brewery. The Wright family will embrace the young man whom they gave shelter to, my good Whittaker, because I told them to do so and because all of these actors, from the landlady in Smedley Street to the Wrights are indebted to me and will not dare to disobey one single order I gave them.”

  Johnson stood up slowly and solemnly from his seat.

  “You made a good effort, but I’m going to destroy your hope of success for the plans, which you have so carefully constructed with one word.”

  Whittaker Johnson was a coward and secretly he may even not have wished to participate, but he was a very astute man. Consequently Earl Keresley shivered as he heard him utter these words. Kennan, however, smiled arrogantly, still dreaming his dream of success.

  “Go on then,” he said.

  “Well, let me tell you that I know Lord Swaffham. He will not be deceived.”

  “And why not, pray?” asked Kennan, frowning.

  “There were four children born in the hospital that night. One was a girl. Why should he not choose one of the others?”

  “If the lord was willing to raise a child his servant had stolen as his son, why not this child? He’s the one, who’s available. And besides, are you sure that I wish to deceive the lord? Have I not told you that Allen’s son is really the child he’s looking for?”

  Kennan spoke so confidently that Johnson knew hardly to what conclusion to come. His conscience was by no means clear. His hands had been dirty before. His intellect quickly calculated the risks of all probabilities and he couldn’t see in all these combinations any possible danger to himself.

  “I only hope,” he said, “that Allen is up to the job. Mark my words. The old man has an infallible sense of detecting fraud. As ever the most trivial of things will knock over the best laid plans and destroy the deductions of the most brilliant intellect.”

  Kennan interrupted his associate.

  “Allen’s son is the son of Lord Swaffham,” he said decisively.

  Johnson didn’t understand what he meant and felt that he was being played with.

  “As you please,” he said angrily, “but you will, I presume, permit me to convince myself of the truth of this assertion.”

  Then, advancing towards Allen, the solicitor said, “Have the goodness to remove your coat.”

  Allen took it off and threw it on the back of a chair.

  “Now,” continued Johnson, “roll up your right shirt sleeve to the shoulder.”

  The young man obeyed. The solicitor cast a rapid glance at the bare arm. He turned to his associates and said triumphantly, “He’s not the right man.”

  To his surprise, Kennan and Keresley burst into a fit of laughter.

  “No,” continued the solicitor, “this is not the mariner, whose child was born at the hospital in Bournemouth and the lord will immediately see this. You can laugh all you want, but this plan has come to nothing.”

  “Enough,” said Kennan.

  “So, my dear man,” said Earl Keresley, taking Allen’s hand, “you’re certain that this is not the lost child’s father, because he has no tattoo of a ship on his arm? But what is not, can be. On the day on which Allen is introduced to the lord, there will be a beautiful tattoo on the arm. Well, listen. Allen is coming with me tomorrow to Dover. We will visit a tattoo parlor. He will sit on a chair and I will give him a bottle of Whiskey. Then the tattooist will give him the nicest of tattoos. Then we will go to dinner.”

  Kennan rubbed his hands with delight.

  “But you forget that a certain amount of time is required to give a tattoo the appearance of not having been recent,” objected Johnson.

  “Let me speak,” broke in his associate. “If we only needed time, let’s say six months or a year, we could postpone our final act until then. But I, Earl Keresley, assure you that, using the right ink, in two months, we will show you a tattoo that will pass muster, not perhaps before a tattooist, but certainly before the lord.”

  Whittaker Johnson’s small eyes blazed with fire as he thought of the millions he stood to gain.