“Well, Laurence C. owned a house at that address, which is valued at three million, and he has less than two million in liquid assets, so where is Mr. Laurence B. getting this large deposit he’s making tomorrow?” The sound of computer keys clicking could be heard on the phone.

“All will be revealed tomorrow morning, Conrad.”

“And I must tell you, Stone, that Mr. Laurence B. Hayward has no credit record to speak of—only a MasterCard, with an okay payment record, and no employer, either.”

“That’s because he’s been living mostly in England since he was eight years old, and he is now thirty. If you’d like to check his credit over there, his employer is Eton College, where he is an assistant master and of which he is an old boy. He came to the States to attend his sick father three or four months ago.”

“One moment.” More computer keys. “Good news, Stone, the fellow exists! He also has an account at Coutts Bank, which speaks well of him, but it’s small potatoes.”

“Conrad, would you prefer it if I took him elsewhere?”

“I would prefer it if I knew more about him before I press American Express to deliver a Centurion card instantly.”

“Conrad, have I ever brought you a client who didn’t meet or exceed your wealth standards?”

“Well, no . . .”

“Then have a little faith, and tell American Express to, as well. See you tomorrow at nine.” Stone hung up.

Joan buzzed. “Herb Fisher on two.”

“Yes, Herb?”

“Have you done any checking into Mr. Hayward? I mean, Laurence?”

“No, but Wilmington Trust has, and he’s real.”

“Okay. You have an appointment at three PM tomorrow to view the penthouse at the Fairleigh. It’s apartment 15, and the agent is a Ms. Cassandra Gotham—veddy British—and she will meet you there.”

“Thank you, Herb. See you tomorrow morning.”

—

IT WAS HALF PAST SIX when Laurence returned from his barbering. He walked into Stone’s office and stopped. “Is this any better?”

He looked quite handsome, Stone thought. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Let’s go upstairs and find you a room, then we’ll have some dinner.”

Laurence grabbed his bag and followed Stone to the elevator. Stone led him into the large room and showed him where things were. “Do you want to freshen up?” he asked.

“I don’t get any fresher than after a couple of hours at Nico’s,” he replied.

“Then let’s go down to my study.” They got back on the elevator and got off at the living room.

“This is a very beautiful house,” Laurence said. He stopped before a grouping of pictures. “And these are very beautiful, too.”

“Thank you. They were painted by my mother, Matilda Stone. She has a few other things hanging in the American collection at the Metropolitan Museum.”