Old Mackenzie sat in his armchair pondering. It was just after lunch on a gloomy November Sunday, when Victoria had come to visit with Robert... and HIM, of course. HE, the unnamed fiend, was Victoria's husband, formerly James Phelps, a junior clerk working for Mackenzie Trust, old Mackenzie's mind child and financial empire. James, as mentioned, had started out as a junior clerk and divided his time between the cubicle and his squalid rented flat in the oppressive and depressive Whitechapel district of London. But Jamie was a resourceful and not unattractive sort of fellow. He began to sleep his way up the success stair, until he got to the rather satisfying position of Branch Manager and old Mrs. Frances Mackenzie's lover. But Jamie's shining star had another name - not Frances, Victoria instead. Jamie struck gold (or so he thought) when he got her pregnant and married her. A satisfactory and shining life seemed to unravel in front him. The harsh reality was that he was now below the last bellboy in Mr. Mackenzie's eyes. Not a son-in-law; not Victoria's husband; a mere tool, a useful tool employed to give his daughter respectability and a wedding ring on the finger and his grandson a spotless birth certificate. Beyond that, Michael Mackenzie had absolutely no use or consideration for Jamie. Indeed, but for Victoria's passion for her husband, he would have definitely suffered a "fatal car accident" just a few months after Robert's birth. But Vicky, foolish girl, loved the no good fellow. And Michael Mackenzie wouldn't subject his only child to pain, even for higher purposes. But now old Mackenzie was pondering as the age old aneurism tingled his brains again. The time was short and decisions had to be taken. Vicky was definitely foolish and perfectly capable to bring about her own ruin. So decisions had to be taken for her. Although Sunday, and gloomy November weather, the full corps of attorneys of Mackenzie Trust were summoned and presented with the burning issue: how to draft Michael Mackenzie's last will and testament so that James Phelps wouldn't be able to touch the Mackenzie estate no matter what. Five hours later, Michael Mackenzie signed his will that stated shortly and clearly that all Mackenzie estate went directly to Robert and would be administrated by the same corps of attorneys until the boy turned 25. Vicky and James got sufficient allowances for a prosperous life, but no possible access to the Great Nugget. Thus assured, Michael Mackenzie drank a stiff glass of scotch, lied back in his favourite armchair and finally let the aneurism do its job. Upon hearing of his father-in-law's death, Jamie's only thought was to call his lover - now one to his choice, a platinum blonde, bust-enhanced exotic dancer. He spent the next three hours making plans for a successful divorce settlement and a place on the board of directors of Mackenzie trust. So excited was he by the news, that he didn't even notice his wife entering the living room to call him to the memorial service. Two hours later the will was read. Half an hour later, three lawyers from Mackenzie Trust were instructing Victoria for the divorce procedures. One month later, a penniless James Phelps rented a squalid flat in Whitechapel and got a job as a junior clerk in a large corporation...