The next morning after breakfast, Sir Colin Firth approached Natty, Nancy and me.

"My son tells me that you are in possession of a signet ring with our family crest on it. Would you mind if I take a look at it?"

"Not at all. In fact, I would greatly appreciate it if you could help us trace its origin."

Natty took off the ring and handed it to him.

Sir Firth inspected it closely. "Yes, this is indeed my ring. See, those initials C and F here?" He handed the signet ring back to Natty. "If you don't mind telling me, I would be interested to learn how that ring came into your possession."

So Natty told him what we had learned from Thea. How on a stormy, rainy night, fifteen years ago, a strange young man had delivered a small sleeping child – Natty – to a London orphanage. A young man who had been hurt. Badly hurt, with blood all over him. How he somehow had convinced Thea Alcott, who had been on duty on that particular night, to take in the child and to pretend that she had found her on a bench outside the orphanage. How the young man had refused to go to a hospital, claiming he would not survive the night if he did so. And how he had handed Thea the signet ring, with the remark that it might prove helpful for the child to have that ring, in later years.

"That young man wasn't you, Uncle Colin, or was it?" Nancy asked.

Sir Firth, who had been listening to Natty's story in silence, shook his head.

"No, that young man wasn't me, Nancy. Though I have a pretty good idea who he may have been. Or perhaps, from whom that young man may have acquired my ring."

Seeing us all look at him expectantly, he smiled.

"To explain, allow me to tell you a story from my youth. It was a bit more than sixteen years ago. I was a few years older than you kids are now, but not that much older. I was attending Eaton, then. In the holidays, together with a few friends I took a trip to the States. We went hiking and camping, and we visited most of the famous National Parks: The Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Bryce, Yellowstone. We had a grand old time."

Ian and Francine's father smiled fondly in memory. "Anyhow, at one point, in a group with other students we had met, we got the idea into our heads to go spelunking. You know, exploring caves. Nobody of us had any experience whatsoever with that, we just thought it would be a splendid adventure. So, equipped with nothing but a few flashlights, we entered the extended system of caves in Burlitt, a small State Park located near the border between New Mexico and Texas. Those caves were partly under water. "

He shook his head. "It was quite irresponsible behavior on our part, and one might say that we deserved what happened next. What happened was an unexpected change in the weather. There were storms and heavy rains, and as a result, there were flash floods – sudden floods that filled large parts of those subterranean caves and tunnels with water. When we finally realized the danger, it was almost too late. Even worse, I had gone off exploring a bit on my own while the others were taking a break, and I had managed to lose my way.  When the tunnels began to fill with water, the rest of our group went in search of me, but could not find me. Eventually, they gave up, quite correctly realizing that their first priority must be to save their own lives. Fortunately for me, there was this one guy, a chap by the name of Jake. Jake something or other, I don't remember. Anyway, Jake refused to give up on me. While the others retraced the way we had come and indeed managed to leave the system of tunnels before the caves were completely flooded, Jake went looking for me and, against all odds, he found me. That was a good thing too, because by that time, I had become completely lost and most certainly would have died down there."

Sir Firth frowned. "I cannot say why Jake acted the way he did. After all, he risked his own life to save me, a complete stranger. Maybe it was just that he was such a courageous, decent chap, much more decent and courageous than the rest of us. Anyhow, I thanked him profusely. I asked him if he could think of any way I might reciprocate, but he just shrugged it off, claiming that it was nothing, that I would have done the same thing for him. I then gave him my signet ring and told him that if he ever needed my assistance, or the assistance of any other member of the Firth family, all he needed to do was approach them and show them that ring."

We had been listening to his story with rapt attention.

"So, do you think that the young man who delivered me to the orphanage was Jake?" Natty asked.

"I can't say, really." Sir Firth shrugged. "I find myself hoping that it was not so. I would hate to learn that the chap got so grievously hurt, from whatever mishap that may have befallen him. Besides, it is difficult to understand why he would not have approached me or our family for help. We would gladly have taken care of the child, if only he had asked."

"Did Jake have some kind of an Irish accent when you met him, Sir Firth?" I inquired.

"No, not at all."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, I am positive."

We considered that.

"He could have faked the Irish accent," Natty suggested.

"Badly wounded as he was, and under severe stress?" I mused. "Well, I suppose it can't be ruled out."

"Did you ever meet Jake again later, Uncle Colin?" Nancy asked.

"Funny that you should ask. In fact, I did. I almost had forgotten about that. It must have been about five years ago. There was that conference I attended, in London. One afternoon when no interesting talks had been scheduled, I was strolling through the city, near Piccadilly Circus, when suddenly I ran smack into Jake. He looked practically unchanged, so I recognized him immediately, whereas he did not appear to recognize me at first. But I made him sit down with me in a small restaurant where we talked for half an hour or so. He told me that he worked for some big company from the States. It may have been oil, or cars, or something of that sort. I gave him my card. And he promised to call me soon. That was the last I heard of him."

"So your father may still be alive, Natty. I mean, if the young man at the orphanage was Jake," I amended.

"And if that young man actually was my father," Natty added.

"Well, the ring is in your possession now." Sir Firth looked at her. "So tell me, do you need any kind of assistance from me or from our family?"

Natty blushed. "No, I don't think so. But thank you for your kind offer."

Later that afternoon, after saying good-bye to Lord and Lady Kerrington, and to Nancy's sister Lizzy, the three of us got into the limousine and James drove us back to St. Albert's.

The terrible thing was, I was thinking of him as 'James' already, and of myself as 'Miss Catherine', whenever we were communicating with him. The aristocratic attitude and lifestyle could be awfully addictive.

Sitting in the back of the limousine, we talked about our weekend at Kerrington Manor.

"How come you are so much in conflict with your parents, Nancy?" I asked her. "I mean, granted that they hold on to extremely conservative political opinions, but apart from that, they seem to be kind and friendly enough, or am I missing something here?"

"Cathy's right. You better explain yourself here, Nancy Fortescue Kerrington," Natty added.

We had overheard Lady Kerrington address Nancy like at one point, apparently in an attempt to admonish or scold her daughter. I figured that it must be our friend's full name.

Nancy rolled her eyes.

"If you insist on calling me that, there will be bloodshed," she promised. "As to what you were saying, Cathy: you are right, my parents are not monsters or anything like that. But neither of you can imagine what it is like to grow up in that household, to be raised to become the future Lady Kerrington. To sit in councils, visit balls, manage the estate, talk to the servants. It is like they tacitly assume that this is all you really want to do with your life. The path has been cut out for you, there is no freedom left for you, no choice. It is a stifling, suffocating life they want me to live, and I just can't do it. I can't and I won't. I'd rather run away and live somewhere else under an assumed name."

"You could always live as a hobo," Natty suggested. "Like, in those songs written by Bob Dylan."

"Maybe we could all become hobos," I proposed.

On that cheerful note we returned to St. Albert's.

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A / N : Thank you for taking the time to read this, and for following Cathy and Natty's story.

If you have comments, ideas, suggestions, moody remarks or whatever, do not hesitate to add them here, as I am always happy to get feedback.