“Well, really, Fortune, you’re rather exacting. You’re after his soul, I suppose,” said Lomas, with something like a sneer.
“Who is Kimball?” Reggie insisted. “There’s two unknown quantities. Who is Kimball? Who is Sandford?”
“I’m afraid you want the Day of Judgment, my dear fellow,” said Lomas. “‘Unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known’—that sort of thing. Well, we can’t ring up the Recording Angel from here. It’s a trunk call.”
“I know you’re worldly. But you might know your world. Look about, Lomas, old thing. I’ve been looking about.” He took out a newspaper cutting.
Lomas read: “‘Sandford. Any one who can give any information about Mrs. Ellen Edith Sandford, resident Llanfairfechan from 1882-1900, formerly of Lancashire, is urgently begged to communicate with XYZ.’” He looked up. “Of Lancashire? That’s a guess?”
Reggie nodded. “North Wales is mostly Lancashire people.”
“Well, there’s no harm in it. Do you want us to advertise for Kimball’s wet nurse?”
“And his sisters and his cousins and his aunts. Yes. All in good time. But watch him first. Watch them both.” He nodded, and sauntered out.
Lomas lit a cigarette and pushed the box to Bell. Both men smoked a minute in silence. Then Lomas said, “That’s a damned clever fellow. Bell.”
“Yes, sir.”