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"Certainly. Address." Avery thumbed the papers in his brief-case. "Here it is. Just--'155
Alexander Street, Mayville, Ohio'--scrawled across a sheet of paper."
"What has that got to do with this?"
"I'm not sure. It's the only--what I might call non-committal--paper in his whole
collection. At a guess, and only a guess, it is the address of the other girl."
Barney flinched as if he had been struck. "The other girl! Good God! I hadn't thought of
her! The real one. Alive!"
"I presume so," his father said slowly. "I should imagine that Jonathan found Chloe
writing to or receiving letters from this address. He jotted it down--for me. For us--in case we
decided to go into this matter any further."
"Of course, you will?"
"I don't know, son. That's why I called you in here. Shall I? Or shall I not? Jonathan
decided not to do it--while he lived. That is an argument against it. On the other hand, he left
things so that I could easily hold up the will and start an investigation. That is an argument in
favor of--I suppose. Chloe's confession--and further proof--would be necessary to make the thing
legal.
"Very clearly, he left it up to me. I wish he had talked about it. But I suppose talking was
what he hated most. I'm hopelessly at sea."
"Legally, you're bound to look into it."
"I know, son. But there are places where the laws of men and the laws of mankind don't
quite jibe. This seems to be a candidate for that paradox. If I do. Suppose I do. What happens?
Chloe is disgraced. Muriel, trained for twenty years to inherit the Leigh millions, to live as a
Leigh heiress, to do the name honor in the world's eyes, is suddenly reduced to penury. And who
takes the Leigh name and millions? A girl in a little Ohio town who probably doesn't know what
it means to spend fifty dollars at once, who never heard of Patou, who couldn't read a French
menu or spell 'dowager,' and who thinks that a knife, fork and spoon are all the table silver ever
used by anyone. Mayville suggests that, doesn't it?"
"Mayville's a pretty name."
"You're romantic. Chloe probably gave the baby to a servant to be raised. Mayville is
perhaps nothing but a general store and a post office in the farm country. She may even be
married to some yokel."
"Great heavens! I never thought of that."
"We must--we must think of all that. We must think at once. I cannot hold up the will. A
few days at the most are available." Avery stared solemnly at his son. "Now, boy, what's your
best judgment on that small problem?"
Barney did not answer for several moments. His gaze was abstracted, concentrated.
Finally he turned it upon his father. "In the first place, I'd compare Muriel's footprints with this
one. There's a good chance that she is the girl after all-that her father had a pipe dream and that
we've built up a story no Philadelphia gossip, in her wildest and most inspired moments, would
be capable of thinking. After that--"
"Yes?"
"After that--well, that's the first thing."
"You asked me to come in?" Muriel said to Mr. Avery. "Things to sign?"
There was nothing to sign. Avery made a hasty invention. "Well--we did wish for a
specimen of your signature."
Muriel wrote across a sheet of paper he offered. "Why the delay about reading the will?"
she asked casually.
Avery smiled. "A thing or two for us to take care of first."
The girl nodded. "Chloe was furious."
"I'm very sorry. We're acting exactly as your father directed. I've arranged a temporary
account for you, by the way. Your pass book is here."
"Thank you. I'll be going if that's all."
"One other little thing. Sorry to trouble you." His voice was placid, as if the thing he was
about to ask was usual and to be expected. "We'll want your footprint."
"My footprint!"
"Naturally. Matter of form. For comparison with the original made when you were born."
He smiled at the girl. "That rather handsome foot of yours, Muriel, is the best insurance you
have."
"You mean, I've got to get all daubed up with ink?"
"It won't be bad. And it washes off with water, I understand. Miss Henderson of our
office will fix it in a moment." He rang a bell and the secretary appeared. "Please take Miss
Leigh to Miss Henderson. She knows what to do."
Muriel rose, a trace of annoyance on her face, but no sign of suspicion. "The law is so
damn silly," she said and walked out of the room.
Ten minutes later Barney fairly burst into his father's office. Douglas Avery had his back
to the door and was gazing over the traffic in the street below. He heard his son enter, turned,
nodded and looked away. Barney snatched up the two papers on the desk--one of them old and
yellow-edged, bearing a print unbelievably small, the other fresh and still moist with a space
between the ball and heel of Muriel's long and narrow foot. He held his breath while he looked.
Slowly he put them down. His father moved beside him.
"You see?" Avery said.
"Different."
"Absolutely. The girl who was just in here is no more Muriel Leigh than I am-and she
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