“I wish the count had not put off the marriage. There must be a reason why he did that.”

  “It annoys me, too, but what can we do?”

  The former insurance broker knew he had to reassure the earl.

  “Everything is going well,” he added, “even our diamond mines. We’re certain of a million.”

  The earl rubbed his hands as an exotic view stretched out before him.

  “I’ve met with Johnson,” continued Kennan. “He has returned from Dorset and Lord Swaffham is full of hope and expectation that he is on the path, which he thinks will take him to his son.”

  Jeff Lett entered the room and sat down.

  “This should be over soon,” he said.

  Joseph Kennan laughed.

  “It won’t take long now. We will have Swaffham’s millions and Cora Bletchley’s six hundred thousand and our diamond mine. Soon we’ll have an income that a monarch might envy.”

  He stopped, because there was a light tap on the door and Carey entered. She bowed to the earl and the former insurance broker and with the graceful movement of a bird, she perched herself on her father’s knee and throwing her arms round his neck, she kissed him.

  “This is very nice,” said the industrialist with a forced smile. “The favor is given in advance, because you have come to ask me for something, of course.”

  The young woman shook her head and answered in the tone of one addressing a naughty child, “Oh, you are a bad daddy! I don’t sell my kisses.”

  “Of course not,” he said, rolling his eyes as his friends looked on amusedly.

  “I came to tell you that dinner is ready and that Allen and I are both very hungry. I only kissed you, because I love you and if I could choose a father again, it would be you.”

  He smiled fondly.

  “But for the last couple of weeks,” he said, “you have not loved me as much as before.”

  “No,” she answered with charming simplicity.

  “I think I know the reason. Your heart is full of some other man’s love for you.”

  Carey laughed a womanish laugh.

  “I love you dearly,” she said, “but I’ve found out how really good you have been and how much trouble you took in bringing Allen to me.”

  At these words Kennan and Keresley looked at each other. The father sprang so abruptly to his feet that Carey nearly fell to the ground.

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

  “Do you suppose a daughter does not know her father? You might deceive others, but I have found out about you.”

  “Carey, I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” she asked, “that my grandfather didn’t come to Allen’s rooms the day I was there?”

  “Are you crazy? Listen to me.”

  “No, I will not. You must not tell me lies. I’m not a fool and when you talked to Mr. Kennan and Mr. Keresley I listened at the door and I heard what you said to each other.”

  Kennan moved forward and put his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  “Did you tell anyone, Carey?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  Her father breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Of course I don’t count Allen,” continued the woman, “for he’s my fiancé.”

  “Unhappy child!” exclaimed Kennan in so furious a voice and with such a threatening gesture of the hand that for the first time in her life Carey was afraid.

  “What have I done?” she asked to her father, the tears springing to her eyes. “I only said to Allen that we should be grateful for you and grandfather and your friends for bringing us together.”

  Earl Keresley, who up to this time had not said a word, now interfered.

  “And what did Allen say?” he asked, calmly, though his face was red.

  “Allen? Oh, he laughed out loud and then he cried out, “Now I see it all.”

  “Did you not understand my poor child, what this laugh means? Allen thinks that you were chosen for him by us.”

  “Well and suppose he does?”

  “A man like Allen will never love you. He will always consider you a part of the contract between us and him. Oh, poor daughter of mine! He will accept all your true love and devotion and not give back anything at all. You don’t see this and God grant that the blindness is never removed from your eyes. Can you not see this foolish boy for what he is?”

  “Enough!” she cried. “That is enough! I will not allow you to insult my husband.”

  The father shuddered at the thought that his words might cost him his daughter’s love. Earl Keresley intervened by putting his arm around Carey’s shoulder and leading her out of the room. When he returned, Kennan said to Lett, “I don’t understand your anger. It seems to me that you’re most indiscreet.”

  “Do you think it’s nothing for me to be at the mercy of that coward, Allen?”

  “You’re also at the mercy of your foolish daughter. Is Allen not our associate? What does it matter that he found out what we have done?”

  “Ah! You don’t have a father’s feelings. Up till now Allen didn’t know that the Weasel was her grandfather and believed me to be the victim of blackmailers. As a dupe he respected me, as a man, who gave him my daughter for money he will despise me. This marriage will be a disaster.”

  Allen and Carey’s marriage took place a week later. Allen left his simple bachelor flat to take possession of the luxury suite of rooms prepared for him by the industrialist in his house in Smedley Street. It was then time to send for his son, who was being raised by his sister in Devon. His life had changed dramatically, but Allen was no longer surprised at anything. He didn’t feel any remorse or regrets. He only feared one thing and that was that he would make a mistake and might throw away his future, when the eventful day arrived, which would make his son the heir to the Swaffham title and fortune.

  When Lord Swaffham came to meet him and his son, accompanied by Earl Keresley, the young imposter jumped to the level of his masters and played his part with excellent skill. The Lord, whose life had been one long nightmare of misery and sins, fell down on his knees and cried. Had Allen wished it, he would have been moved with his young wife and son to Swaffham House, but Jeff Lett did not allow the lord’s pleas to be answered. It was finally agreed that the lord would come to breakfast the next morning and take away Allen, his wife and his son. They decided on eleven o’clock, but the lord appeared at the industrialist’s house at ten, where he, solicitor Whittaker Johnson, Earl Keresley and Allen Acheson assembled together in solemn conclave to persuade the lord to settle his properties and money on his son and in extension on the man, who had raised him as his son.

  “Now, papa,” said Carey, who kept her father on thorns by her happy talk, “you will no longer blame me for falling in love with a poor sailor, because you see that his son is a Swaffham and his father possesses millions.”

  The lord was now seated on the sofa, holding the hand of the five year old boy whom he believed to be his son tightly in his. Renee, to whom he had given a hint of what was going on, had been taken seriously ill from over-excitement, but had regained herself a little and the Lord was describing this to the others, when he was suddenly interrupted by a series of heavy blows struck on the outside door. A pickaxe was evidently at work. The whole house was shaken by the violence of the attack and the heavy door was thrown down.

  The rest of the plotters, Joseph Kennan, Carl Esprey, the Weasel and James Wexler, who were hiding in another room, because the closer they came to the day they would be paid, the less they trusted each other, looked at each other with pale and fear-stricken faces, because it was evident that only the police would dare use this kind of violence.

  The lord sat in perfect amazement, because the alarm of his host and his friends was evident. He could see Allen’s hand tremble, but couldn’t understand why work evidently going on in the next house could cause such feelings of alarm. Carey was the only one, who had no suspicion and she said, “Dear me! I should like to know the meaning of this disturbance.”

  “I will inquire,” said her father.

  He had hardly opened the door, when he retreated with a wild expression of fear on his face and his arms stretched out in front of him, as though to bar the approach of some terrible ghost. In the doorway stood a small man, with a big girth and exquisite taste of clothes. Behind him stood a tall man with a ruddy face, holding up a police badge. Further back still were half a dozen police officers.

  “Mr. Poiret,” cried the three confederates in one breath, while through their minds flashed the same terrible idea.

  The celebrated detective advanced slowly into the room, curiously watching the group gathered there. There was an air of satisfaction visible on his face.

  He did not speak, until behind him the other conspirators were herded into the room.

  “Oui!” he said. “Poiret, he was right, as usual.”

  By this time Jeff Lett had, to all outward appearance, regained his composure. He walked to Inspector Watkins.

  “What do you want here?” he asked insolently. “What is the meaning of this intrusion into my house?”

  “This gentleman will explain,” answered Watkins, stepping aside to make way for the little man with the big mustache. “But, to shorten matters, I may as well tell you that I’ve obtained a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Jeff Lett.”

  “I don’t understand you!”

  “Do you think, Monsieur, that the Weasel, he has cleaned his hands so completely that not the drop of the blood of Monsieur Frank Defoe clings to your fingers?”

  “On my word, you’re speaking in riddles.”

  A smile passed over Poiret’s face as he took a letter from his pocket. At that moment a policeman entered the room and said, “Sir, we have located the archives.”

  Inspector Watkins followed by Poiret followed him to Lett’s office. There was a suitcase filled with documents on the desk. The inspector leafed through a few pieces of paper and then threw them back on the pile.

  “What a mess! It will take months to find any evidence.”

  “Mon ami, what it is that is necessary, it is the order and the psychology. Please to allow Poiret to read the documents.”

  “Alright,” said Watkins, “I’ll try and get some information the old fashion way. Jones, stay here with Mr. Poiret.”

  He left the room quickly. Poiret sat down behind the desk and looked at the mountain of papers. He put his glasses on.

  “Monsieur Jones,” he said, “Poiret, he has the very important assignment for you.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the young man.

  “Please to bring to Poiret the head cook.”

  “The head cook, sir?”

  “Oui, the head cook.”

  Policeman Jones hesitantly left the room for the kitchen and was soon able to find and fetch the cook.

  “Ah bien,” said the little man with the big girth, “Monsieur, you are the chef?”

  “Certainly, sir,” answered the cook, who was dressed as a cook.

  “And this evening, what have you prepared for the dinner?”

  “Well, turkey, sir.”

  “And do you have the turkey left?”

  The cook and the policeman looked at each other.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Lett keeps a generous table.”

  “Ah, Monsieur,” said the detective springing up and grabbing the cook’s hand, “would it be the inconvenience to prepare for Poiret the meal? He has not yet eaten this evening.”

  “Yes, of course,” replied the astonished cook and slowly left the office.

  Poiret sat down again and began reading through the papers. Ten minutes had not yet passed when the cook came back with a dinner trolley.

  “Ah,” said Poiret as soon as he heard the trolley and looked up.

  “What would you like?” asked the cook. “I have ham, turkey, grouse.”

  “Everything, Monsieur”

  “Everything?”

  “Oui,” said the little man, pleasantly.

  The cook shrugged and was about to leave when Poiret sprang up and pushed the papers to one side of the desk.

  “The work of art,” he said, “it must be shown.”

  The cook put the dishes and two bottles of wine on the desk.

  “Monsieur,” said Poiret, “Van Gogh, he could not have painted the more beautiful painting.”

  He shook the cook’s hand, who left delighted, but still slightly unnerved by the experience. Poiret took an empty dish and offered it to the policeman. He filled it and filled a glass with wine. He pointed at a table at some distance from the desk.

  “Please to sit there and eat without making the noise.”

  Jones took the dish and the glass and went to the table pointed out to him. Poiret sat down and as the hours went by and Watkins came in more and more frequently to see whether the master detective had made sense of the pile of documents, he was both able to bring order out of chaos in regards to the documents and to bring chaos to the dishes, which he had only recently compared to a beautiful painting. He stood up.

  “Monsieur Jones?” he said.

  The young policeman sprang up and stood to attention.

  “Poiret, he is done. Please to carry the valise to the other room.”

  Poiret straightened himself up, checked himself in the mirror and walked imperiously to the door, which the policeman opened for him. As he entered the drawing room, he saw Mr. Lett looking at his daughter and anxiously rocking to and fro. When he saw Poiret he rose to his feet.

  “It’s about time!”

  Poiret’s eye was caught by an elaborately crafted chess board with on top of it the pieces made of ivory and gold.

  “Monsieur, you play the chess?”

  Poiret could see that the chess board was used frequently and by someone, who thought of himself as a master player.

  “No, it belongs to Mr. Kennan, my guest. Look, Sir, you’ve inconvenienced me and my guests long enough.”

  “The pawns, they are first,” thought Poiret. Then loudly, “Perhaps you are familiar with the handwriting of your daughter, Monsieur? Please to listen to what she wrote not so very long ago to Monsieur Allen Acheson, who is now her husband and who is sitting on the sofa here. It reads, “My dearest Allen, I have many secrets to tell to you...”

  “Enough! Enough!” cried the father in a hoarse voice. “Lost, lost, lost! My own child has been my ruin!”

  Poiret nodded at Watkins.

  “Alright, lad,” the inspector said, “take him away.”

  A policeman took Jeff Lett’s arm and tried to pull him away. Lett seemed to have lapsed into a state of half-consciousness. Suddenly he sprang to life crying, “My daughter Carey! What is to become of her? She has no fortune and she’s married to a man, who can’t provide for her. My child will starve.”

  The man’s mind had evidently given way and his love for his child and the hideous future that lay before her had broken him down. The officers handcuffed him, raving and struggling and led him out of the door. Poiret looked at the second pawn.

  “Monsieur Esprey,” said Poiret leafing through some papers, “you are the trader in diamonds and you have been part of this organization for many years.”

  Poiret was silent. Esprey waved his hand in the air.

  “Do you expect me to talk, Mr. Poiret?”

  “Non, Monsieur Esprey, Poiret, he knows the rook and expects you to remain silent.”

  The big South African frowned. Watkins nodded and he too was led out of the room.

  Poiret glanced at the faces of the men in the room. He was looking at any expressions or traits that might give away chess piece number three.

  “Monsieur, what is your name?”

  “James Wexler,” came the timid answer.

  “Monsieur Wexler, you are the moneylender and forger of the signatures.”

  “Lies!”

  Poiret lifted a handful of documents into the air and said, “Poiret, he does not lie. He has the proofs.”

  A police officer grabbed Wexler roughly by the collar.

  “Wait a minute,” said the old penny pincher. “Let’s talk.”

  “Ah, the bishop! He is treacherous,” thought Poiret.

  Watkins nodded at the policeman and with a gentle hand on the back of his neck the policeman accompanied Wexler out of the room.

  “Who is Monsieur Newton,” asked Poiret.

  “The one in the blue suit, Poiret!” said Watkins.

  Poiret looked at the Weasel. The Weasel looked back. Poiret took a few letters out of the suitcase. Newton lifted his chin in the air and offered both his wrists. Poiret looked at Watkins. A policeman handcuffed the dangerous member of the combine and led him away. His nickname belied his character. He was a knight.

  The calmest of the conspirators was now the one, who was generally the first to be alarmed and this was the genial Earl Keresley. In the meantime Poiret turned towards the solicitor, Whittaker Johnson.

  “And you too, Monsieur, are included in this warrant,” he said.

  Johnson, perhaps owing to his legal training, didn’t reply to Poiret, but addressing the inspector, he said, “I’m the victim of a most unpleasant mistake, but my position...”

  “The warrant is quite clear,” answered the inspector. “You can see it if you like.”

  “No, it’s not necessary. I only ask you to take me to your superintendent and in five minutes all will be explained.”

  “Do you think that, Monsieur?” asked Poiret in a quiet tone of sarcasm. “You have not heard of what has taken place? You have been removed by the London bar as the solicitor.”

  Had not Watkins suddenly grasped Whittaker Johnson’s arm, the solicitor would have flown at Joseph Kennan’s throat.

  “Villain, murderer, traitor!” he screamed. “It’s your fault!”

  “I know nothing of this,” stammered the leader of the gang.

  He now saw that the blows struck at the door were merely a trick, because Poiret had thought that a little theatrical drama would scare them and render them more amenable to reason.

  “I know everything,” said the solicitor, revealing himself to be the fair weather friend that characterized the bishop. “And I will tell all.”