“Possibly,” Rutledge replied, evading a direct answer. “It’s Mr. Teller’s illness that has brought me here. The doctors are at a loss to explain it. He seems deeply troubled by something. The family can think of nothing that would have provoked a sudden and unusual attack of paralysis.”

Mr. Forester looked steadily at Rutledge. “And this has required the attention of Scotland Yard?”

Rutledge smiled. “In fact, Mr. Teller has had a miraculous recovery, and he disappeared from the clinic. I’ve been in charge of the search for him.”

Forester shook his head. “This is very odd. I’d have never thought of Walter Teller experiencing a collapse of any kind. I do know he is very attached to his son. An only child, as I recall.”

“That’s correct.”

“And nothing has happened to the boy?”

“He’s on the point of going to public school.”

“How the years fly. I remember when he was born, how proud Mr. Teller was of him, all the plans he spoke of. I have had the strongest suspicion that he didn’t return to the field because of the boy. I can appreciate that, having had a son of my own late in life. The wonder of watching him grow was precious beyond words.” Something in his voice as he spoke the last words alerted Rutledge.

“He was in the war?”

“Yes, how did you guess? He was lost on the Somme. I have long wanted to go to France to see his grave. But that’s not to be. I’m too old for such a journey now.” Clearing his throat, he said, “But to return to Walter Teller. I shan’t expect an answer any time soon. I’m grateful to know the circumstances. The Society has need of him. I hope his recovery will be complete.”

Rutledge thanked him and left.

On the drive back into London, Rutledge gave some thought to Walter Teller’s relationship to his son, and then stopped at Frances’s house.

David Trevor was in the garden, enjoying the late evening breezes before the sun went down, and looked up with a smile when he saw his godson walk through the French doors and across the terrace.

“Ian. You’ve had a long day. Frances told me you’d gone back to the Yard.”

Rutledge smiled, and took the chair across from Trevor’s. “How are you feeling?”

“I won’t lie to you, it was not the pleasantest experience. I have bruises and no recollection of how I got them. But we survived, and that’s what matters.” He held up his bandaged hand. “Frances saw to it. Not deep, but bruised as well. A small price to pay, considering what happened to so many. Is your friend all right?”