“Precisely. An interval of one hundred years is bound to embrace and cover the whole period of any person’s life—to include his birth and his death.”
“How about the centenarians?”
“They are too rare to take into consideration.”
“Well, take it then, Tempest, that you are right. The hundred years is to cover some person’s life. Whose?”
“The life of some person born on the 18th of August, 1881. Now, Yardley, who was born on that day?”
“Really, I’m not the Registrar-General.”
“No, of course not; but I wouldn’t give tuppence for your memory, my dear Yardley.”
“Oh, go on; don’t beat about the bush. Take it for granted I’m as stupid as an owl. I assure you I feel I am when I’m talking to you.”
The barrister laughed, and, taking his cigarette from his mouth, he watched it as the smoke curled away from the burning end.
“Yardley, the water-tight compartments of your mind get locked a bit too tightly. The 18th of August, 1881, is probably—pretty certainly—the date of the birth of Evangeline Stableford. At any rate that is the date of the birth of the child which was offered to Lady Stableford for adoption, and the probabilities are overwhelming that the child that was planted on her was that child.”