Jack tore off another bite of bread and chewed. “Not low places. I’ve been looking for honest work, Ellie. Haven’t run a rig or picked a pocket in months. I’ve been over by the City, where the clerks and counting-house bookkeepers stop for their pint.”

“Not high places,” Rex said. “By the standards of a ducal cousin or uncle, those would be unusual haunts.”

“He talked like you,” Jack said, cocking his head. “But where…?”

“Concentrate,” Eleanora said. “See him in your mind’s eye, Jack, like Grandpapa would. Note the details that a portrait would include. What color were his gloves?”

“Black, kid, lined, very fine. No mending,” Jack said. “A touch of lace at his cuffs, but just a touch. Three capes on his greatcoat. Looked like a Schweitzer and Davidson cut.”

“Snuff box?” Eleanora asked.

“Didn’t see one.”

“What about a hat?”

“Lock, or similar quality,” Jack replied. “He was a fine gent.”

Rex listened to this exchange with growing dismay. “Did the fine gent give you a name?”

“Edwards,” Jack replied around the last mouthful of bread. “But that wasn’t his name.”

Edwards? Would Eddie have used that name as an alias? “Did he have a walking stick?” Rex asked. “A cane, anything of that nature?”

Eleanora put her palms on the blotter and leaned across the desk. “Think, Jackson. You took note of this man for a reason. Amid the noise and stink and crowding of some pub or tavern, this fellow sat down and made an impression on you. You took in the details, because we were taught to look carefully. Fancy beaver hat, touches of lace, fine tailoring…what was in his hands when he took a place at your table?”

“Walking stick,” Jack said. “Silver handle, dark wood. Might have been mahogany because it held a nice, high shine. Brass ferrule rather than gold. He hooked it on the edge of the table, set his gloves next to it, his handkerchief atop his gloves. We talked about the little problem His Grace’s bank recently had with a certain Mr. Butterfield. Mr. Edwards was familiar with that situation.”

Eleanora straightened, her gaze swinging to Rex. “You know this man. You know which of your managers or cousins has been chatting up out-of-work pickpockets and swindlers.”

“Ellie,” Jack began, “I’m not a swindler these days. I’m going honest, or I would if anybody would hire me. The fancy gent apparently has taken up with Beveridge Larson, and that association recommends him to no one.” Jack took the lid off the crock of soup and poured the remaining contents into an empty bowl.

“It does cross my mind,” he went on, “that if the fancy gent intends to play the Old Man on some unsuspecting bank, then Larson resembles him more nearly than I do. They are of a height and built the same, while I have been missing the regular occasion of nutrition lately.”