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Gooding couldn’t have looked more astonished.
    “If the Mr. French I served was engaged in such an affair,” he said after a moment, “he would not have confided in me. If you are after such details about his private life, I suggest you speak to his solicitors. The firm of Hayes and Hayes.”
    But the Mr. French the clerk had served was an older man—and a junior clerk would have been the last person he’d have confided in. Still, this meant that there was no gossip in the firm about the man. He had been very discreet. Not surprising if he was expecting his son and his nephew to come into the business at some future date.
    “I had reason to believe that Mr. French was killed last week in a motorcar accident,” Rutledge said. “Miss French went this morning to identify the body. She didn’t know the man.”
    “Then it wasn’t her brother. I should think she knows him better than anyone.”
    “Will you go with me to look at the body?”
    “No,” Gooding said firmly. “If I disagreed with her for any reason at all, whose word would you take?”
    “I should be forced to take hers. But I should continue to search for Lewis French.”
    “Then my word would be superfluous.”
    And Gooding wouldn’t budge from that position.
    In the end, Rutledge went to the Inns of Court and found the street where Hayes and Hayes had their chambers. The elder Mr. Hayes agreed to see him. Rutledge said nothing about the dead man. Instead he began with the late Mr. French’s will.
    “I should like to know if he made any provisions for a second family, one that his wife and children knew nothing about.”
    Hayes regarded him with what Rutledge could only describe as hooded eyes, although the impression came from the second fold of skin that age had deposited on the lids. His eyes were a cold gray, deep set. Bristling gray brows like an overgrown thicket jutted out above them. Rutledge found himself thinking that such a fierce scowl would be a very effective weapon in a courtroom.
    “I could of course show you a copy of the will,” Hayes said finally. “But I can assure you that there was no mention made in it of a mistress or children born out of wedlock.” Rutledge was about to speak, but Hayes held up a blue-veined hand. “Nor was there a codicil setting out such an arrangement. Why should you believe that such a provision existed?”
    “Miss French went with me this morning to look at a dead man I believed to be her brother. It was very difficult for her. I was already fairly certain that it was Lewis French. She assured me it was not. And she told me later that her mother had been very concerned about the elder Mr. French’s fidelity. It would account for a resemblance I’d noticed between the dead man and a portrait at the wine merchant’s, if the victim had been her father’s child by a mistress.”
    “Then she is greatly mistaken. Her father as far as I know was faithful to his wife. It was his father, Mr. Howard French, who had an affair before he was married with a young woman who died in childbirth. The child was adopted by one of his father’s servants. We have no other information about that child. Presumably he was never told of his true parentage.”
    Which would explain, Rutledge thought, why a nervous and rather insecure wife might imagine her own husband had strayed.
    He said, pursuing that thought, “Was Lewis French’s mother wealthy?”
    “She was very wealthy. Her father had made a fortune in shipping, and with the marriage came a very satisfactory arrangement for the French and Traynor wines to be carried around the world in that firm’s bottoms.”
    Small wonder the woman was insecure, more especially if she had been as plain as her daughter.
    “Then the man in the mortuary could well have been a descendant of Howard French’s—er—indiscretion.”
    “It is entirely possible. Although highly unlikely.”
    But how did he come by that watch? And where was Lewis French?
    “Do you know the