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that tightly controlled façade: bitterness.
    Noah, raised by a succession of wet nurses, nannies, and tutors, had had little contact with either parent from babyhood on. Small wonder now that, grown to manhood, any suggestion of sympathy or compassion for a possibly hurting parent would not come easily, if at all.
    “At any rate,” his mother continued, after a silent moment, “your lost and gone shares have very likely made their way to California.”
    “California? Of course, I realize the conglomerate is headquartered in San Francisco. The Catherine Syndicate, according to some information I found. But, still—”
    “Her mother’s name was Marla Powell,” Elvira said. Another sip of cooling tea, another dusting of the immaculate skirt that needed no dusting. Other than an “Out, damned spot!” kind of moment. “Marla owned The Bostonian Gentlemen’s Club.”
    “What?” Noah stared. The revelations were coming fast and furious, almost too much for him to hear, absorb, and understand. “The place is still in existence. I’ve seen it—”
    “Of course you have.” His mother sounded impatient. “My understanding is that it was sold, and the proceeds given to her.”
    “Her who?”
    “The daughter. Marla’s daughter.” Time for the killing blow. “Your half-sister.”
    Noah surged to his feet with a great scraping of table legs across the wooden floor. “The hell you say!” he gasped.
    “I say indeed. Your father’s doxy gave birth to a girl, when you were about eight years old.”
    “My father. Extra-marital hanky-panky. A half-sister. Good God.” Noah’s head was spinning.
    Another slight shrug. “Her name is Cecelia Powell. If you look far enough, I daresay you’ll find that’s where your missing shares have disappeared to. Your father deeded them to her in his will.”
    “He did what? Jesus Christ!”
    “Noah, I will not have that sort of talk in my drawing room,” Elvira sharply reprimanded her son as if he were still five years old. “Now, I realize you may be extremely disappointed at hearing all this, but it isn’t as if—”
    “California, you said?”
    “San Francisco, to be exact. I have been told that was the destination of the girl and your father’s friend—that pathetic drunken excuse for an attorney.” She sniffed. “I hired my own, thank you very much. After your father was killed in the carriage accident—along with his harlot, I might mention—I needed someone I could trust.”
    Fueled by fury and disbelief, Noah had been pacing from one end of the room to the other. Now, suddenly, he halted short. “Why now, Mother?”
    “Now?”
    “Yes. You’ve held onto this little secret for thirty years. Why did you decide to disclose it to me now?”
    Surprised, Elvira stared up at him. “Why, so you can resolve the situation, of course.” As if he was too dense to realize the ramifications. “Or do you think we should let the conniving little hussy get away with this?”
    “Ah-hah. I see. My revenge will serve as your revenge.” Another silent moment to digest possibilities and probabilities. Then, “Thank you, Mother, you’ve been quite helpful.”
    With that, Noah buttoned his coat, grabbed his hat, and dashed out the door and away. Elvira, left behind, pulled facial muscles into what might have been a sardonic smile and returned to the day’s mail.
    *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 
    “And you never sleep?”
    “So the slogan says.”
    “Does that mean you, in particular?”
    A chuckle. “No, Mr. Harper, it means the Agency, in general. Me, I sleep, every chance I get.”
    Immediately upon leaving his mother and her stunning revelations, Noah had returned to Harper Hazard’s executive suite for information and files. From there, it was a short brisk walk to the local Pinkerton office. After stating his request, and his business there, he had been ushered into a back office and asked to wait.
    A rather gloomy, rather dingy