. . . possible error, any tiny imperfection, anything that could invalidate my claim. But you will find them entirely in order."

"I'm sure of that." And Hubbard knew, if the papers were forgeries, they would be works of art.

"You'll probably want me to undergo an equally thorough physical examination for signs of—ah—surgical tampering. Yes, I see I'm right."

Ungenerous hope leaped inside Hubbard. "You would object?"

"On the contrary, I'd be delighted. Haven't had a thorough medical checkup for years." On this cooperative note, Emrys Shortmire bowed and left.

Hubbard sighed back against the velvet cushions of his chair—real silk, for he was a very rich old man. Unfortunately, he could not doubt that this was Jan Shortmire's progeny. But—and Hubbard sat upright—no matter how much Emrys resembled his father, that was only one parent. Who had the young man's mother been?

Quickly, Hubbard searched. . . Read More