A Breach of Promise

chapter 6
Rathbone went into court on Monday morning with not a scrap more evidence than he had possessed on the previous Friday afternoon. He had spoken with Monk and listened to all he could tell him, but it offered nothing he could use. Thinking of it now, he had given Monk an impossible task. It was foolish of him to have allowed himself to hope, but sitting at his table in the half-empty courtroom, he realized that he had.

The gallery was filling only slowly. People were not interested. They had no feeling that the case was anything but the rather shabby emotional tragedy Sacheverall had made it seem and, to be frank, Rathbone had been unable to disprove. If Melville were hiding any excuse, no whisper of it showed.

Rathbone looked sideways at him now. He was sitting hunched forward like a man expecting a blow and without defense against it. There seemed no willingness to fight in him, no anger, even no spirit. Rathbone had seldom had a client who frustrated him so profoundly. Even Zorah Rostova, equally determined to pursue a seemingly suicidal case, had had a passionate conviction that she was right and all the courage in the world to battle her cause.

"Melville!" Rathbone said sharply, leaning forward to be closer to him.

Melville turned. His face was very pale, his eyes almost aquamarine colored. He had a poet's features, handsome yet delicate; the fire of genius in him was visible even in these miserable circumstances, a quality of intelligence, a light inside him.

"For God's sake," Rathbone urged, "tell me if you know something about Zillah Lambert! I won't use it in open court, but I can make Sacheverall speak to his client, and they might withdraw. Is it something you know and her father doesn't? Are you protecting her?"

Melville smiled, and there was a spark of laughter far behind the brilliance of his eyes. "No."

"If she's worth ruining yourself over, then she won't let you do this," Rathbone went on, leaning a little closer to him. "As things are, you can't win!" He put his hand on Melville's arm and felt him flinch. "You can't avoid reality much longer. Today, or tomorrow at the latest, Sacheverall will conclude his case, and I have nothing to fight him with. Just give me the truth! Trust me!"

Melville smiled, his shoulders sagging, his voice low. "There is nothing to tell you. I appear to have given you an impossible case. I'm sorry."

He got no further because Sacheverall came across the floor, looking at them with a faint curl to his lips, his head high, a swagger in his walk. He was even more satisfied with himself than he had been when they adjourned. He sat down in his chair, and the moment after the clerk called the court to order. It was still half empty.

McKeever took his place.

"Mr. Sacheverall?" he enquired. His face was almost devoid of expression, his mild blue eyes curious and innocent. If he had come to any conclusions himself he did not betray them in his manner.

Sacheverall rose to his feet. He was smiling. There was satisfaction in every inch of him. Even his floppy hair and protruding ears seemed cavalier, a mark of individuality rather than blemishes.

"I call Isaac Wolff," he said distinctly. He half turned towards Melville, then resisted the temptation. It was a sign of how sure he was of himself. Rathbone recognized it.

"Who is Wolff?" he said under his breath to Melville.

"A friend," Melville replied without turning his head.

"Of whose? Yours or Lambert's?"

"Mine. Lambert has never met him, so far as I know." His voice was so soft Rathbone had to strain to hear it.

"Then why is Sacheverall calling him?" Rathbone demanded. Sacheverall was not bluffing. He showed that in every inch of his stance, his broad shoulders, the angle of his head, the ease in him.

"I don't know," Melville answered, lifting his eyes a little to watch as a tall man with saturnine features walked across the open space of the floor and climbed the steps of the witness-box. He faced the court, staring at Sacheverall. His eyes seemed black under his level brows, and his thick hair, falling sideways over one temple, was as dense as coal. It was a passionate, compelling face, and he stared at Sacheverall with guarded dislike. No one could mistake that he was there against his will.

"Mr. Wolff," Sacheverall began, relishing the moment, "are you acquainted with Mr. Killian Melville, the defendant in this case?"

"Yes."

Rathbone looked across at the jury to see their reaction. There was a stirring of interest, no more. They were inexperienced in courtroom tactics. They did not understand Sachev-erall's confidence and were only half convinced of it.

"Well acquainted, sir?" Sacheverall's voice was gentle and he smiled as he spoke.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Wolff's eyes and mouth but he did not allow it into his words.

"I have known him for some time. I do not know how you wish me to measure acquaintance."

Sacheverall held up his hand in a broad gesture. "Oh! But you will, Mr. Wolff, you will. It is precisely the point I am coming to. Give me leave to do it in my own way. How did you meet Mr. Melville?"

The judge glanced towards Rathbone, half inviting him to object that the question was irrelevant. Rathbone knew there was no point in doing so. To challenge would only show Rathbone's desperation. He shook his head momentarily and McKeever looked away again.

"Mr. Wolff?" Sacheverall prompted. "Surely you recall?"

Wolff smiled, showing his teeth. "It was some years ago, about twelve. I'm not sure that I do."

It was not the answer Sacheverall had wished. Rathbone could tell that from the sharp way he moved his arm back. But he had opened the way for it himself.

"Was it a social occasion, Mr. Wolff, or a professional one?"

"Social."

"You have recalled it, then?"

"No. We have no professional concerns in common."

Rathbone rose to his feet, more as a matter of form than because he thought it would actually affect Sacheverall's case. The tension was becoming palpable. Beside him at the table, Melville was rigid.

"My lord..."

"Yes, yes," McKeever agreed. "Mr. Sacheverall, if you have a point to this, please come to it. Mr. Wolff has conceded that he is acquainted with Mr. Melville. If there is something in that which bears upon his promise to marry Miss Lambert, then proceed to it."

"Oh, a great deal, my lord," Sacheverall said impassively. "I regret to say." He swung around to face the witness-box. "Are you married, Mr. Wolff?"

"No."

"Have you ever been?"

"No."

McKeever frowned. "Mr. Sacheverall, I find it hard to believe that this is indeed your point."

"Oh, it is, my lord," Sacheverall answered him. "I am about to make it." And disregarding McKeever, he swung back to Wolff, on the stand. "You live alone, Mr. Wolff, but you are not a recluse. In fact, you have a close and enduring friendship, have you not... with Mr. Killian Melville?"

Wolff stared back at him unflinchingly, but his face was set, his eyes hard.

"I regard Mr. Melville as a good friend. I have done for some time."

Rathbone knew what Sacheverall was going to say next, but there was no way in which he could prevent it. Any protest now would make it worse, as if he had known it himself and therefore it must be true. He felt hollow inside, a strange mixture of hot and cold.

"Is that all, Mr. Wolff?" Sacheverall raised his eyebrows very high. "Would you not say an intimate friend, with all the subtle and varied meanings that word can carry? I use it advisedly."

There was a hiss of indrawn breath in the gallery. One of the jurors put his hand to his mouth, another shook his head, his lips compressed into a thin line. A third was pale with anger.

McKeever cleared his throat but said nothing.

Rathbone looked at Melville. His eyes were hot with misery and his fair skin was flushed. He was staring straight ahead. He refused absolutely to look back at Rathbone.

"You may use what word you like, sir," Wolff replied steadily, his voice thick. "If your implication is that my relationship with Killian Melville is of an unnatural kind, then you are mistaken." There was a rush of sound in the gallery, exclamations, sudden movement, a cry of disgust. A journalist broke a pencil and swore. "The acts lie in your imagination, and nowhere else," Wolff continued more loudly to be heard. "I am under oath, and I swear to that. I have never had an intimate relationship with another man in my life, nor can I imagine such a thing." This time the noise was louder, sharper voices. Someone shouted an accusation, another an obscenity.

McKeever banged his gavel angrily, commanding silence.

"I do not expect you to admit it, Mr. Wolff." Sacheverall did not appear disconcerted. He gave a very slight shrug as he walked a few paces away and then swiveled on his heel and suddenly raised his voice accusingly. "But I shall call witnesses, Mr. Wolff! Is that what you want, sir? Never doubt I will, if you force me to! Admit your relationship with Killian Melville, and advise him, as your friend, your lover, to yield in this case." He said the word lover with infinite disgust, his lips curled. "Stop defending the indefensible! Do not put it to the test, sir, because I warn you, I shall win!"

Melville sat as if frozen. His face was ashen white and the freckles stood out like dark splashes. He did not take his eyes from Wolff, and the pain in him was so powerful Rathbone could all but feel it himself. He was unaware for seconds that his own hands were clenched till his nails gouged circles in his palms.

The courtroom prickled with silence.

Isaac Wolff stood perfectly motionless. His look towards Sacheverall was scorching with contempt. A man less arrogant would have withered under it, would have faltered in self-doubt, instead of smiling.

"If it is your intention to attempt to blacken my name, or anyone else's, through calling people up to this stand to say whatever it is they wish, then you will have to do so," Wolff said very carefully, speaking slowly, as if he had difficulty forming the words and keeping his voice steady. "That is a matter for your own concern, not mine. I am not going to admit to something which is not true. I have already sworn that I have never had an intimate relationship with another man, only with women." There was a buzz of titillation and embarrassment at the use of such frank words.

"I cannot and will not alter that statement, whatever threats you may make," Wolff went on. "And if you persuade someone to forswear or perjure themselves, that is your responsibility, and you are a great deal less than honest, sir, if you try to make anyone believe the answer, for that lies with me."

Sacheverall pushed his large hands into his pockets, dragging the shoulders of his coat.

"You force me, sir! I do not wish to do this to you. For heaven's sake, spare yourself the shame. Think of Melville, if not of yourself."

"By admitting to a crime of which neither of us is guilty?" Wolff said bitterly.

Rathbone rose to his feet. "My lord, may I ask for an adjournment so I may speak with my client and with Mr. Sacheverall? Perhaps we can come to some understanding which would be preferable to this present discussion, which is proving nothing."

"I think that would be advisable," McKeever agreed, reaching his hand towards the gavel again as there was a murmur of disappointment in the gallery and several of the jurors muttered, whether it was in agreement or disagreement, it was not possible to say. "Mr. Sacheverall?" He did not wait for the answer but assumed it. "Good. This court is adjourned until two o'clock this afternoon."

Rathbone leaned towards Melville, still sitting motionless. He grasped his arm and felt the muscles locked.

"What can he prove?" he whispered fiercely. "What is Wolff to you?"

Melville relaxed very slowly, as if he were waking from a trance.

A smile with a hint of hysteria in it touched his lips and then vanished.

"Not my homosexual lover!" he said with a gasp of disbelief, as if the idea had a kind of desperate humor to it. "I swear that in the name of God! He is as normal, as masculine, a man as ever drew breath."

"Then what? Is he some relative by blood or marriage?" Even as he asked, Rathbone could not believe it was blood. The two men were physically as unalike as possible. Wolff must have been four or five inches the taller and two stones heavier. He was as dark as Melville was fair, as brooding, mystic and Celtic as Melville was open, direct and Saxon. "What?" he repeated firmly.

But Melville refused to answer.

The bailiff was beside the table.

"Mr. Sacheverall is waiting for you, Sir Oliver. I'll take you to him, if you come with me."

"Do you want to withdraw?" Rathbone demanded, still facing Melville. "I can't make that decision for you. I don't know what Sacheverall will find or what these witnesses may say."

"Neither do I!" Melville said jerkily. "But I am not going to marry Zillah Lambert." He closed his eyes. "Just do what you can..." His voice cracked and he turned away.

Rathbone had no choice but to go with the bailiff and meet with Sacheverall, not knowing what he could salvage of the chaos he had been thrown into. Except that if he were honest, he had not been thrown, he had leaped, more or less open-eyed. His own lack of thought had earned him this.

Sacheverall was half sitting on the bare table in the small room set aside for just this sort of meeting. He did not stand when Rathbone came in and closed the door. His fair eyebrows rose quizzically.

"Ready to retreat?"

Rathbone sat in one of the chairs and leaned back, crossing his legs. He realized he disliked Sacheverall, not because he was losing-he had lost cases before, to adversaries he both liked and admired-but for the way in which Sacheverall savored the misfortune this would bring to Melville, and his own part in making it happen. The prosecutor was not serving justice but some emotion of his own. Rathbone resented giving him anything.

"If you mean ready to capitulate, no, I'm not. If you mean discuss the situation, then of course. I thought I had already made that plain in asking for an adjournment."

"For God's sake, man!" Sacheverall said with a half laugh. "You're beaten! Give in gracefully and I won't call my witnesses who can place Wolff and Melville together in the most intimate and compromising circumstances. Of course the man doesn't want to marry!" His voice was rich with scorn. "He's a homosexual... I'll use the politest word I can for what he does." His expression made all too evident what manner of word was running through his mind.

"You can use whatever word is natural to you," Rathbone answered with a sneer he did not bother to hide. "You have no reputation to guard in here."

Sacheverall flushed. Perhaps he was more aware than he showed that he was awkward beside Rathbone, clumsy, inelegant, that his ears were too large.

"If you think I won't drag it up, you are mistaken!" Sacheverall said angrily. "I will! Every sordid detail necessary to prove my client's case and claim the damages she's due. Melville will end in prison... which is where he belongs."

"If that is what Barton Lambert wants," Rathbone said very quietly, his voice as calm as if he were addressing an elderly lady disposing her will. His mind was racing. "Then he must hate Melville... or fear him... far more than would be explained by anything we know so far. Although I do have an excellent detective working on the case, and if there is anything whatsoever in the history of any one of the Lambert family, from the day they were born, then he will find it."

He saw Sacheverall's face darken with anger, and ignored it. "And, of course, once you have opened the door for this kind of slander then anything will be permissible. The gallery will love it. The press will tear them apart like a pack of dogs." Rathbone adjusted his legs a little more gracefully. "You and I are aware of that, naturally. We have seen it before. But are you sure the Lamberts are? Are you perfectly sure Mrs. Lambert is prepared to have her every act-every flirtation, every gift, every incident, letter, confidence-examined this way and interpreted by strangers? Can anyone at all be so certain of every moment of their lives?"

Two furious spots of color marked Sacheverall's cheeks and he sat forward, his back straight, shoulders hunched.

"How dare you?" he grated. "You have sunk lower than I thought possible. Your client is guilty of acts that all civilized society regards as depraved. He has pursued and deceived an utterly innocent young woman for the furthering of his own ambition-and you threaten her with slander in order to aid him in escaping the consequences of his actions." He jabbed his finger in the air and his lips were drawn into an almost invisible line. "You show that behind that facade of a gentleman you are without honor or principle. The best I can think of you is that you are ambitious and greedy. The worst is that you have a sympathy with your client which extends a great deal further than you would wish it supposed."

Rathbone felt an absurd moment of chill as he realized what Sacheverall meant, then laughter. Then his dislike turned into something much greater.

"You have a prurient mind, Sacheverall, which seems to be fixed in one area. The reason for my refusing to admit to this act on my client's behalf is extraordinarily simple. He has instructed me not to. I am bound by his wishes, as you are-or should be-bound by those of Miss Lambert and her family." He put his fingertips together. "I do not know why Mr. Melville is so unwilling to marry her after having grown to know her as well as is undisputed between us. But if you have a jot of intelligence between your ears"-he saw Sacheverall flush; he had referred to them deliberately-"then you will consider the possibility that the reason has nothing to do with Isaac Wolff and everything to do with Miss Lambert herself."

"She has nothing whatever to hide!" Sacheverall said between his teeth. "Do you imagine she would be foolish enough to go into this if she had? Her father is not an imbecile."

Rathbone smiled patiently. "If he imagines he knows everything about his daughter's life, then he is more than an imbecile," he replied. "He is a babe abroad in the land, and not only deserving your protection, for the fee he pays you, but needing it, in common humanity."

Sacheverall was shaken. It was in his eyes and his mouth. He was also very very angry indeed. His hand on the table was trembling.

Rathbone uncrossed his legs and stood up. "Give the matter a little more thought before you call these witnesses of yours and open up the area of private conduct in an effort to ruin Melville. I think you will find it is not what Lambert wishes. Perhaps you should speak to Miss Lambert alone? You may find she has been maneuvered into this suit by circumstances and now is unable to withdraw without explaining far more than she wishes to. Fathers, on occasions, can be very... blind... where their daughters are concerned. It is not too late to settle this matter privately."

"With damages?" Sacheverall demanded. "And a statement that Miss Lambert is innocent of any fault whatever?"

"Mr. Melville has never implied that she was less than totally charming and desirable, an excellent bride for any man," Rathbone said truthfully. "He simply does not wish to marry her himself. His reason is no one else's concern. Perhaps Miss Lambert's feelings are engaged elsewhere but she cannot afford to admit it-if the gentleman is unsuitable. Perhaps married already."

"That's untrue!" Sacheverall responded instantly and with considerable heat.

"Probably," Rathbone agreed, standing by the door now. "I am merely pointing out that the possibilities are many, and none of them need to concern the law or the general public. Consult with your clients and let me know." And before Sacheverall could make any further response, Rathbone went out and closed the door, surprised to find his own throat tight and his hands clammy.

As it happened, the court did not resume for another two days, and Rathbone spent the time desperately trying to capitalize on the brief respite he had gained. First he went to see Isaac Wolff, having obtained his address from Melville. He had not known what to expect. Perhaps at the back of his mind was the tear that Sacheverall was right and that visiting Wolff would confirm it beyond anything he could argue to himself- and therefore ultimately to the court.

As he walked along Wakefield Street, just off Regent Square, looking for the correct number, he realized how little defined was the impression he had of Killian Melville. He did not know the man at all. He was usually aware of intense emotion in him; his revulsion, almost terror, at the idea of marrying Zillah Lambert was so real it was almost palpable in the air. His love of his art was real. One had only to look at the work itself to lose all possible doubt of that. The light and beauty that flooded it spoke more of the inner man, of his dreams and his values, than anything he might say.

But there remained in him something concealed, elusive. The core of the man was shielded and, to Rathbone at least, inaccessible. He had made no judgment within himself.

He reached the house in which Wolff had rooms and pulled the bell at the door. A manservant showed him in and up the stairs to a very gracious hall opening into apartments which took up the whole of the front of the house.

Isaac Wolff admitted him and led him to a sitting room which overlooked the street, but the windows were sufficiently well curtained that the sense of privacy was in no way marred. It was old-fashioned. There was nothing of the grace and imagination of Killian Melville's architecture, but it was also restful and extremely pleasing. The furniture was dark and heavy, the walls lined with books, although there was no time to look and see what subjects they covered.

Wolff stared at him levelly and with a cold intensity. It was not unfriendly, but it was guarded. He was anticipating attack. Rathbone wondered if it had happened before-suspicion, accusation, innuendo. It must be a wretched way to live.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wolff." Rathbone found himself apologetic. This was an intrusion any man would loathe. "I'm sorry, but I have to speak to you about today's evidence. I have already consulted with Mr. Sacheverall, and it is possible he may persuade Mr. Lambert to settle without returning to court, but it is a very slender hope, and we certainly cannot count on it."

Wolff took a deep breath and let it out silently. A very slight smile touched his lips.

"You must be extremely effective, Sir Oliver. What on earth did you say to him that he would even consider settling? He seems to have won outright. What he says is untrue, but there is no way I could prove it."

"No one can ever prove such things," Rathbone agreed, coming a step or two farther into the room and taking the seat Wolff indicated to him. "That is the nature of slander. It works by innuendo, belief and imagination. It plays upon the ugliest sides of human nature, but so subtly there is no armor against it. It is the coward's tool, and like most men, I despise it." He looked at Wolff's dark face with its brilliant eyes and curious, sensitive mouth. "But as I pointed out to Sacheverall, it is a weapon that fits almost any hand, mine as well as his, if need be."

"Yours?" Wolff looked surprised. He remained standing, his back now to the window, silhouetted against it. "Who could you slander, and how would it help? Would it not simply reduce Melville to the appearance of a viciousness born of desperation?"

"Yes, probably. And it is not inconceivable he would refuse to do it anyway," Rathbone conceded. "But Sacheverall does not know that, nor dare he rely upon it. He cannot be certain that if Melville is staring ruin in the face, he may not alter his hitherto honorable character and strike anywhere he can."

"He wouldn't," Wolff said simply. There was no doubt in his eyes, only a kind of bitter, powerful laughter.

"I believe you," Rathbone acknowledged, and he spoke honestly. He surprised himself, but he felt no uncertainty at all that Melville would accept complete destruction before he would sink to saying something of Zillah Lambert he knew to be untrue. He was a man whose behavior in the whole affair was a succession of acts which did not have any apparent logical or emotional line of connection. Rathbone was assailed again with an overwhelming conviction that there was something, one powerful, all-consuming fact, which he did not know but which would explain it all.

Something eased in Wolff's demeanor, something indefinable it was so slight. He was waiting for Rathbone to explain.

"Sacheverall is risking his client's well-being as well as his own, so he has to be certain." Rathbone crossed his legs and smiled up at Wolff, not in humor or even comfort, but in a certain sense of communication that they were in alliance against an attitude, a set of beliefs which they both found repellent but that was too delicate to be given words. "And he may guess or judge that Melville will not react with attack, but he will not judge it of me. He knows better. I too will behave in the interests of my client, not necessarily having sought his permission first."

"Would you?" Wolff said quietly.

"I don't know." Rathbone smiled at himself. It was true; he did not know what he would reveal were Monk to discover anything. What he did know, without doubt, was that he would drive Monk to learn every jot there was to know: about Zillah Lambert, her father, her mother, and anyone else who could conceivably have any bearing on the case. "I don't know if there is anything, but then neither does Sacheverall."

Wolff let out his breath slowly.

"But I must know what they can learn about Melville," Rathbone went on reluctantly. "Not what is true or untrue... but what witnesses can he call and what will they say?"

Wolff stiffened again and his voice was unnaturally steady. "That Melville and I are friends," he replied without looking away. "That he has visited me here, sometimes during the day, sometimes in the evening."

"Overnight?"

"No."

Rathbone was not sure if there had been a hesitation or if he had imagined it. He was not even sure how much it mattered. Once an idea was sown in someone's mind, without realizing it, memory became slanted towards what was believed. No deception need be intended, nevertheless it was carried out, and when a thing had been put into words it assumed a kind of reality. No one wanted to go back upon testimony. It was embarrassing. The longer one clung to it and the more often it was repeated, the harder it was to alter.

"Anything else?" Rathbone asked. "No more than that? Please tell me the truth, Mr. Wolff. I cannot defend Melville, or you, from what I do not know."

But Wolff was as stubborn as Melville. He gave the same blank stare and denied it again.

"How long have you known Melville?" Rathbone pursued.

Wolff thought for a moment. "About twelve years, I think, maybe a little less."

"Do you know why he changed his mind about marrying Miss Lambert?"

Wolff was still standing with his back to the window, but the light was shining on the side of his face, and Rathbone could see his expression clearly. There was no change in it, no shadow.

"He didn't," he replied. "He never intended to. He liked her. It was a friendship which he believed she shared in the same spirit. He was appalled when he realized both she and her family read something quite different into it."

Rathbone could see there was no point in attempting to learn anything more from Wolff. He considered asking neighbors himself, but Monk would be far more skilled at it, and he had other things to do. He rose to his feet and excused himself, thanking Wolff for his time and warning him that their hopes of settling without returning to court were still negligible. He left feeling angry and disappointed, although he could not have named what he had hoped to find.

"What do you want me to discover?" Monk asked as they sat together over an excellent meal of roast saddle of mutton and spring vegetables. They were in one of Rathbone's favorite hostelries; he had invited Monk to join him partly because it was a miserable case he was requesting him to follow, but largely because he felt like indulging himself in an undeniable pleasure, like good food, good drink, a roaring fire and someone to wait upon him with courtesy and a cheerful manner. This particular dining room offered all these things. It was bustling with life, and yet not overcrowded. They had been given a table out of the draft from the door and yet not too far into a corner and not near noisy companions.

"The worst they can find for themselves, or create out of confused and prejudiced observations," he answered Monk's question as the serving girl left a tankard of ale for them and he acknowledged it with thanks.

Monk helped himself to another crisp roasted potato. "I presume you have already spoken to this man Wolff and to Melville himself?"

"Of course. They deny it, but add very little."

"Do you believe them?" Monk was curious, there was no decision or assumption in his eyes.

Rathbone thought for a moment or two, eating slowly. The mutton was excellent.

"I don't know," he said at last. "They are both lying about something. I feel it in Wolff, and I am certain of it in Melville, but I don't know what. I am not at all sure it is that."

"Then what?"

"I don't know!" Rathbone said sharply. "If I did, I wouldn't need you!"

Monk looked amused, even faintly satisfied.

"And I need weapons against Lambert if Sacheverall doesn't settle," Rathbone continued. "And I don't suppose he will. He'll go to Lambert and ask if there is anything I can find. Lambert will swear there isn't. If Sacheverall has any sense he'll speak to Zillah alone and ask her. Whatever there is, or is not, I don't know."

"But you need to," Monk concluded for him, leaning across and taking the last potato.

"Precisely."

"And if there is, would you use it?" Monk asked.

"That is not your concern. Unless, of course, you are telling me you will not look for it if I would."

Monk laughed. "I have often wondered just how hard you would fight if you were tested, which weapon you might decide to use. I was simply interested. I'll learn what I can."

"And tell me what you wish to?" Rathbone said dryly.

"Of course. I presume you are accepting the bill yourself?"

At the nearest table a man roared with laughter.

"Of course. Will you please pass me the horseradish sauce?" Monk obliged, smiling widely.

Sacheverall sent Rathbone a very clear and tersely worded message that his client would not settle, and Thursday morning saw them back in court, Sacheverall standing in the open space before the high witness-box and facing first the judge, then the jury. He affected to ignore the public benches, now far more crowded again.

"I call Major Albert Hillman."

Major Hillman duly appeared, walking with a decided limp. He stared straight ahead of him, refusing to look at Rathbone or Melville where they sat, or at Sacheverall himself standing feet a little apart, back straight, like a circus ringmaster with his arms a trifle lifted. Major Hillman climbed the steps with difficulty and took the oath.

"I'm sorry to call you on this distressing matter, sir," Sacheverall apologized. "I hope your injury does not pain you too much?"

Rathbone sighed. Obviously it was going to prove to be a war wound, nobly obtained, which was why Sacheverall had drawn attention to it It was all predictable, but nonetheless effective for that.

"My duty, sir," the major replied stiffly. His distaste was plain in his face and in the downward dropping of his voice.

"Of course." Sacheverall nodded. "I shall be as brief as possible. I would not do this at all... had Mr. Melville been prepared to concede the case"-he glanced at Rathbone briefly, and away again-"and admit his fault without necessitating this unpleasant disclosure."

The judge leaned forward. "You have made sufficient apology, Mr. Sacheverall. Please proceed to your evidence."

"My lord." Sacheverall bowed.

McKeever's wide blue eyes did not seem to change at all, and yet even from where Rathbone was sitting, he could see a coldness in the judge. This should not have been a criminal matter, not even a legal one. A domestic sadness, a misunderstanding of emotions, had escalated into something which was now going to rain lives and perhaps deprive the world of one of its most brilliant and creative talents. One young woman had had her marriagehopes blighted, and no doubt she had suffered a deep and extremely powerful sense of rejection. But she was young, extremely handsome, wealthy and of a charming disposition. She would recover, as everyone does. She could simply have said that they quarreled and she had broken the betrothal. It would have raised a few eyebrows. In a month it would have become uninteresting. In a year it would have been forgotten.

This was ridiculous. Without thinking, Rathbone was on his feet.

"My lord! Before we proceed to drag two men's private lives before the public and suggest matters which cannot be proved, and should not be our concern, over the-"

Sacheverall had swung around, staring with exaggerated amazement at Rathbone.

"My lord! Is Sir Oliver saying that acts of sexual perversion and depravity are not of public concern simply because they do not happen in the middle of the street?" He flung out his arm dramatically. "Is a crime not a crime because it occurs behind closed doors? Is that his view of morality? I hope he cannot mean what he says."

Rathbone was furious. He could feel the heat burn up his face.

"Mr. Sacheverall knows I suggest nothing of the sort!" he snapped. "I ask that we not descend into the realms of prurient unprovable speculation into men's personal lives in an effort to justify acts of misunderstanding, carelessness or at worst irresponsibility. This cannot help anyone! All parties will be hurt, perhaps quite wrongly. They will learn to hate, where before there was merely sadness. They-"

"In other words, my lord," Sacheverall said jeeringly, glancing at the gallery and back at McKeever, "Sir Oliver would like my client to forgive his client and simply abandon the case, with Miss Lambert's reputation still in question and her feelings ravaged as if all that were of no importance whatever. I fear Sir Oliver betrays all too scant a regard for the purity, the sensibilities, and the true and precious value of women! In deference to his dislike for scandalous suppositions which cannot be proved, I will make no suggestions as to why."

Rathbone took a step forward. "I regard Miss Lambert's reputation as of great importance," he said gratingly, almost between his teeth. "The difference between us is that I regard Mr. Melville's reputation also... and Mr. Wolff's. He is no party to this case, and yet he stands to lose a great deal, without proof of guilt, having harmed no one."

"That remains to be seen," Sacheverall retorted. "And as to whether such acts are wrong-or not-that will depend upon another court. But I know what the public thinks!" He all but laughed as he said it, again inclining his head toward the gallery as if he spoke for them and with their approval.

McKeever sighed. He looked at Sacheverall with dislike.

"No doubt you do," he said quietly. "But this is a court of law, Mr. Sacheverall, not a place of public speculation and gossip." He looked at Rathbone. "I regret, Sir Oliver, but passionate as your plea is, it is not an argument in law. If Mr. Sacheverall's client wishes to pursue this line of testimony, I am obliged to allow it."

Rathbone swiveled around to look where Barton Lambert was sitting a little behind Sacheverall, his wife beside him. Her pretty face with its unusual brow was set in extraordinary determination. He had not realized earlier, when she was full of charm and elegance, what power there was in her. He felt certain she was the driving force behind this suit. It was she who understood precisely what damage could be done her daughter if the word was whispered around that a young man who had been in love with her had at the last moment broken his betrothal. Zillah was lovely, wealthy, of perfectly adequate social standing. Whatever fault she had was not a visible one, therefore it could only be invisible, leaving the imagination to rise-or sink-to any level. Barton Lambert might have some pity for Melville. Delphine had none.

Rathbone returned to his seat and awaited the worst.

It came. Sacheverall began to question the major as to his residence, which was the same gracious building as Isaac Wolff, and then took him step by reluctant, unpleasant step through his observations of Killian Melville's visits, the time of day or evening, as far as he could remember them, what he was wearing, his general air and demeanor. He obliged the major to describe Wolff's greeting Melville at the door, their evident pleasure in seeing each other. It was all done with some subtlety. There was nothing whatever to which Rathbone could object. He caught McKeever's eye a number of times, and saw his dislike of the pattern the questioning was following, but an equal resolve to abide by the law.

An hour later, when Sacheverall was finished and turned with a smile of invitation to Rathbone, he had established a regular pattern of visits between the two men and that they frequently lasted for several hours. He could not and would not guess as to what happened within Wolff's rooms once the outer door was closed, but the pinkness of his cheeks and his evident embarrassment and rising anger made his thoughts transparent.

Rathbone rose with his mind in turmoil. He had seldom felt so inadequate to a case or so angry with his adversary. He had often fought hard, and lost more than he wished, but to a better case, and to a man he respected. Indeed, Ebenezer Goode, a man he had often faced, was also a personal friend.

He loathed Wystan Sacheverall, and it was more than just the fact he was winning easily. There was a prurience in the man which repelled him.

"Major Hillman," Rathbone began courteously, walking forward towards the witness stand, "I am sure you would rather not be here on this matter, and I should not press you were there not absolute necessity."

"Thank you, sir," the major said stiffly. He did not know what to make of Rathbone, and it was clear in the expression in his rather plain face.

"Are you acquainted with Mr. Wolff? Do you speak to him if you should meet on the landing or stairs?"

"Yes-yes, I have until now." Hillman was obviously nonplussed.

"But something here has changed your mind?" Rathbone suggested helpfully. "Something that has been said today?"

Hillman looked acutely unhappy. He stood as if to attention, shoulders square, back stiff, eyes straight ahead.

"Perhaps I can assist you," Rathbone offered. "Mr. Sachev-erall has suggested a relationship which would be quite improper, and you might find that repugnant to you?"

"I should, sir! I should..." Hillman was shaking, his voice thick with emotion.

"Extremely repugnant?" Rathbone nodded.

Hillman was tight-lipped. "Extremely."

Sacheverall was leaning across his table, listening with a half smile on his face.

The jurors were watching Rathbone intently.

Melville had his head down, refusing to look at anyone.

"Quite so," Rathbone agreed. "You are not alone, Major Hillman. Most of us do not care to think or imagine the intimate details of other people's lives. We consider it intrusive at best, at worst a form of emotional illness."

Sacheverall started to his feet.

McKeever gestured him to silence, but his glance at Rathbone warned him that he would not indulge him much longer.

"But before coming here today, Major Hillman," Rathbone said with a smile, "you had not entertained such thoughts? You did not speak pleasantly while at the same time believing him to be practicing the acts Mr. Sacheverall has hinted at?"

"Certainly not, sir!" Hillman said sharply. "I believed him to be a normal man-indeed, a gentleman."

"So it is Mr. Sacheverall who has changed your mind?"

"Yes sir."

Rathbone smiled. "And here were we supposing it was your testimony which had changed his. Thank you for correcting our errors, sir. I am obliged to you. That is all I have to trouble you with."

There was a ripple of laughter around the room. But it was a short-lived victory, as Rathbone had known it would be. Hard on the major's heels was a man of much less repute, a grubby-minded idler with nothing better to do than to watch and imagine. His evidence was as well embroidered. The jury's contempt for his testimony was marked plainly in their faces, but they had to listen to his leering account, and however hard they might have wished to expunge it from their minds, it was not possible. One cannot willfully forget in an instant. And they were sworn to weigh the evidence, all of it, regardless of their own personal feelings, as Sacheverall reminded them more than once.

Rathbone could discredit the man, but it was hardly worth the effort. He had discredited himself. There was no point in trying to shake his actual testimony. To draw attention to it at all, whether to rebut, argue, or deny, was only to fix it more firmly in the jurors' minds.

"No thank you, my lord," Rathbone said when offered his chance to examine the witness. "I cannot think of anything useful to say to such a man."

The luncheon adjournment was brief, only sufficient to eat the hastiest meal, and then they returned to court. An occupant of the building where Melville lived swore unhappily that he had seen Isaac Wolff visit Melville's rooms and remain for some time. No matter how Sacheverall pressed, he would not put an hour to it. Perversely, his very honesty and reluctance made his evidence the more powerful. It was apparent he both liked Melville personally and regarded this proceeding as an intrusion into those areas of a man's life which should remain private.

It was clear in the jurors' expressions that they attached great weight to his word. He refused point-blank, and with some show of temper, to speculate.

Sacheverall dismissed him with almost palpable satisfaction.

Glancing at Barton Lambert, and at Zillah sitting beside him, so stricken with misery and dismay she looked almost numbed, Rathbone had only one more card to play, and it was a desperate one, with only a shred of hope.

He asked for a fifteen-minute adjournment to consult with Sacheverall.

McKeever granted it, perhaps with more pity than legal reason.

Outside in the hall, Rathbone saw Monk and spoke with him momentarily, but he had nothing to offer, and two minutes later Rathbone strode after Sacheverall, leaving Melville standing alone.

"Well?" Sacheverall asked with a grin. "What now?"

"Ask Lambert if he wants to pursue this," Rathbone demanded. He loathed appealing to Sacheverall, of all people, for mercy, but he had nothing else left.

Sacheverall's fair eyebrows rose in amazement. "For God's sake, what for? He can't lose!"

"He can't lose the case," Rathbone agreed. "He can lose his daughter's happiness and peace of conscience. Have you looked at her face? Do you think this is giving her pleasure? She has her vindication; she does not want or need to ruin Melville as well. Ask Lambert if he needs to go any further."

"I don't need to," Sacheverall said with a broad smile.

"Yes, you do!" Rathbone was furious, but he tried to conceal it for his own dignity. "In case you have temporarily forgotten it, you are acting for the Lambert family, not for yourself!"

Sacheverall flushed. "I'll ask him," he agreed gracelessly. "But I shall also advise him. Now, if that was all you had to say, then we should not delay the court any longer." And without waiting for Rathbone to reply, he turned on his heel and marched back to the courtroom, leaving Rathbone to follow.

Sacheverall produced his final witness, and she was damning. She might have called herself an adventuress, but she was little more than an unpleasantly ambitious prostitute, both experienced and astute as to the appetites of men and women. She had no doubt whatever that Wolff and Melville were lovers. She had seen them embracing and her evidence was possibly the more unpleasant because her entire manner showed that she saw nothing wrong in it. She did not imply it was casual or the satisfaction of a physical appetite alone, but she used the word lovers because she meant the fullness of that emotion.

There was nothing for Rathbone to do. He was completely beaten. It was not merely in Sacheverall's jubilant face but in the grim disgust of the majority of the jurors as well. Even those few who might have felt either pity or a sense that it was a private matter and not a public concern could not argue the issue that Killian Melville had broken his promise to marry Zillah Lambert because of a fault that lay within himself. He had deceived her as to his nature and his intentions and she had every right to demand and to receive reparation from him for the slight to her honor and her reputation.

Rathbone looked across to where she sat beside her father. Her expression was completely unguarded. Disbelief and confusion were so naked those next to her were for once ashamed to stare. She barely understood what had been suggested. Rathbone doubted she was familiar with much of the intimacy of normal love, let alone that between man and man. Most girls of her age and station learned little before their wedding nights. He felt profoundly sorry for her. She sat rigid, staring straight ahead as if at some disaster she could not tear herself from. He had seen such wide, fixed eyes and unmoving lips when he had had to tell people of unexpected deaths, or that a case was lost and they would face a fearful sentence. In that moment he had no doubt at all that Zillah had truly loved Melville, whether he was aware of it or not. However blindly, for whatever reason, it was a terrible wrong he had done her.

He looked at Barton Lambert beside her. His expression was completely different. His skin was red with anger and frustration. He turned one way then another, ignoring his wife, who was speaking quietly to him, her cheeks also flushed. Had either of them any idea what they had done to their daughter? Had they allowed their anger, their ambition, their intellectual understanding of the injury Melville had inflicted upon her to obscure any sensitivity or imagination to her inner world? She might have to live with the turmoil of thought and the pain of loss, of having been deceived and misled, of wondering what she had done to produce the wrong, or why she had failed to seek.

He wondered briefly, and pointlessly, if Sacheverall had actually spoken to Lambert as he had asked. He thought not. Sacheverall was still relishing his victory, standing, smiling very slightly, surveying the jury, avoiding the judge's eye.

McKeever adjourned the court, announcing that they would resume again the following morning, when Rathbone could put forward the case for the defense.

There was a scramble to leave the public gallery. No doubt journalists would be weighing what they would say and composing it in their minds as they snatched cabs back to Fleet Street. Rathbone could imagine, but nothing that came to his mind would show a shred of compassion and very little reticence. Killian Melville was a well-known figure; so was Barton Lambert. Zillah was young and pretty. There would be plenty of interest.

Rathbone looked at Melville, who straightened his back slowly and lifted his face. He looked appalling, as if he felt so ill he might faint. It was impossible to begin to imagine what he must be feeling.

"I think we should leave," Rathbone said to him quietly. "We cannot speak here."

Melville swallowed with difficulty. "There's nothing to say," he answered between dry lips. "I never meant to hurt Zillah... or Isaac. And I seem to have done both. Zillah will recover. She will be all right." He screwed up his face as if feeling a physical pain deep inside his body. "What will happen to Isaac? Will he be ruined? Will they try to send him to jail?"

This was no time for false hope for Wolff or for Melville himself. Sacheverall's face should have swept any such delusions away.

"They may. If it is prosecuted there is really very little defense. It is something people don't usually bother with-if no one under the age of consent is involved and no nuisance is caused by acts in public."

Melville started to laugh, quietly, but with a wild desperation that warned it would turn to weeping any moment.

For once Rathbone did not even consider propriety, or even what his professional reputation would suffer. He put his hand on Melville's shoulder and gripped him hard, even prepared to support him physically if necessary.

"Come," he ordered. "The least we can do is offer you a little privacy. They've had their pound of flesh; let us deny them the pleasure of carving it off and watching the blood." And he half hauled Melville to his feet, pulling him through the press of people, elbowing them out of his way with uncharacteristic roughness.

Out in the hallway, Melville straightened up. "Thank you," he said shakily. "But I am composed now. I shall be... all right."

He looked appalling. His skin was flushed and his lips dry. But his eyes were unflinching, and there was a kind of wild, black humor in them. He still knew something that Rathbone did not. Something that mattered.

Rathbone drew in a breath to ask yet again, then knew it would be a waste of time.

"Do you want me to settle?" he asked, searching Melville's face, trying to see beyond the clear, aquamarine eyes into the man inside. What was there beyond brilliance of ideas, the mass of technical knowledge, the dreams in stone of a thousand generations of history stored and made new? What were the private dreams and emotions of the man himself, his likes and dislikes, the fears, the laughter, the memories? Or weren't there any? Was he empty of everything else?

"I won't marry her," Melville repeated softly. "I never asked her to marry me. If I settle now, say I was wrong when I wasn't, what will happen to all the other men in the future, if I give in?"

"You haven't given in," Rathbone answered. "You were beaten."

Melville turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched, his head down. He bumped into someone and did not notice.

Aching for him, confused and angry, Rathbone hurried after him, determined at the least to find him a hansom and see that he was not harried or abused any further. He caught up with him and escorted him as far as the back entrance. He glared at a couple of men who would have approached Melville, and strode past them, knocking one aside roughly.

At the curb he all but commandeered a hansom and half threw Melville up into it, giving the driver Melville's address and passing him up a more than generous fare.

When the cab was safely on its way, he went back into the courthouse having no idea what he was going to do the next day. When the case resumed he would have to try to find something to change the present opinion. What was there? The last witness had turned the balance beyond redeeming. His only hope was to attack, but what good could that do now? Melville was ruined whatever the result. The only possible advantage would be to save him something financially. And perhaps Barton Lambert, at least, might be willing to do that. He had no need of money.

Rathbone's last hope of achieving that by force, if he could not by appeal to clemency, would be to know something about Lambert, or his family, which Lambert would very much prefer to have kept in silence.

But if Monk could not find it within the next twelve hours, then there was nothing left.

Personally, Rathbone would advise Melville to leave England and try to build his career in some other country where the scandal would not follow him or where they had a more liberal view towards men's private lives. There certainly were such places, and his genius was international, unlike language. Thank God he was not a poet!

Ahead of him, Zillah Lambert was standing next to her parents. He recognized her first, seeing her bright hair, its luxuriant waves catching the light from the lamps above her. She still looked bemused, uncertain about the bustle'and clatter around her, like an animal caught in a strange place. He had seen people shocked like that many times. These halls had witnessed so much human agony too raw to be disguised by any dignity or self-protection, too new yet to have found a mask.

Sacheverall walked up to them, still smiling.

Delphine saw him and her expression immediately altered to one of charm and gratitude.

"Mr. Sacheverall," she said earnestly. "I cannot tell you how grateful we are for your diligence in our cause, in Zillah's cause. It has been a most distressing time for all of us, but for her especially." She lowered her voice a little, but since she had moved closer to Rathbone without seeing him, and farther from Zillah, he could still hear her if he gave his attention. "Of course, it will take a little while for her to recover from the shock of all this. Such a revelation is fearful for a young girl to have to hear. She will need all our kindness and encouragement."

"I promise you she will receive it," Sacheverall said warmly. "Her innocence in this matter is quite obvious to anyone. I have been very moved by her dignity throughout this whole ordeal. She is a remarkable person."

"Indeed she is," Delphine agreed, smiling and looking downward hastily, not to seem too immodest. "I admit, Mr. Sacheverall, I am far prouder of her than perhaps some would approve. But how many girls of her age could have borne themselves under this pressure and kept out bitterness from their nature, or hysteria, or a note of self-pity? She has a great sweetness of character."

Rathbone looked past Delphine to Zillah, who must have overheard this exchange. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes blazed. He could only guess how mortified she felt, the acute-ness of her embarrassment. She was still dazed by not only the loss but the utter and public disillusionment with the man she had loved for nearly three years, and here was her mother seizing the moment to praise her to another man, who was very obviously keenly interested.

Sacheverall did not seem to be in the least aware of the clumsiness of it. He moved forward to speak directly to Zillah after the briefest lingering with Delphine, as if a tacit agreement had been understood.

"I am so sorry," he said earnestly to Zillah. "I wish more than you can know that this had not been necessary."

"Do you?" she said coldly. "I am glad you told me, Mr. Sacheverall, otherwise I should not have known. You are a superb actor, sir. I had the strongest impression you were savoring your victory." She looked at him directly, her eyes filled with tears but unwavering.

For the first time he was completely out of composure. It was the last response he had expected. He took a moment to collect his wits.

"Of course you are distressed," he said placatingly. "I cannot imagine how..." He was not sure what word he wished to use.

"I can see that you cannot," she agreed, now finding it increasingly difficult to stop herself from weeping. Her anger at him, at her mother, at the whole terrible situation, was now at last releasing the emotion she had kept in check all through the endless and searing days of the trial. "But please do not apologize. It hardly matters. I am sure you have done extremely well the job you were engaged for. We are suitably obliged to you."

She could not have been more effective had she slapped his face.

Rathbone's estimation of her soared. It was more difficult than ever to understand why Melville did not wish to marry her-unless Sacheverall's charge was true. It was the only explanation which made sense. But then, knowing his inclination, he was irresponsible at best for having wooed her, grossly cruel at worst, using her simply to gain her father's patronage and possibly to mask his own affair with Wolff by seeming to have interests elsewhere.

But he would not be the first man of genius to have a moral sense which was distorted by egocentricity into total selfishness. Rathbone should not have been disappointed; it was foolish, even naive. A man of his age and sophistication should have known better.

But the pain of it was startlingly sharp. He wanted to admire Melville. He could not help liking him.

Delphine was talking soothingly to Sacheverall, trying to repair the damage. From the look upon his face she was succeeding. Presumably with Melville excluded, he was an acceptable match. He was the right age, his family was excellent, his career prospects good, and he had more than enough money not to be courting her for merely financial reasons, although such a marriage would undoubtably improve his situation.

Barton Lambert had taken little part in the exchange. He was standing with his hands pushed deep into his pockets, and two or three times he had looked towards Rathbone as if he wished to speak to him. But it was too late to make any difference now. His whole posture was one of deep unhappiness, and Rathbone guessed he regretted the whole affair. His affection for Melville had been real. It could not be swept away by any revelation, no matter how dark. Emotions do not often turn so entirely in so short a space. The wound was raw, and it showed. He was an unusual man in that he did not seek to alleviate it with anger.

Rathbone admired him for that. Perhaps Zillah did not gain all her refinement of character from her mother.

Rathbone left the courthouse and went out into the bright afternoon with the sharp sun and wind promising a clear evening. Twilight would not be until after eight o'clock. It made the day seem long, the night over so quickly the next morning would be there almost before he had been to sleep. If Monk did not find anything he would have to call witnesses merely to waste time. Witnesses to what? McKeever would know what he was doing, and Sacheverall certainly would.

His only hope lay in there being something, however slight, in the Lambert family history which would persuade Barton Lambert to settle for a modest amount of damages.

He walked briskly towards a hansom, and then at the last moment changed his mind and decided not to ride but to continue on foot until he had consumed some of the energy of anger and frustration inside himself. He had not acquitted himself well in the case, but that mattered very little beside his concern for Melville's future.

If only Melville had been honest with him and told him about Wolff! But he should have guessed it was something like that. Melville was not a very muscular man; he had a visionary's face, a subtle and delicate mind, a poet's imagination. Rathbone should have told Monk all that, and then perhaps Monk would have found Wolff before Sacheverall did, and this scandal at least could have been forestalled. Rathbone had the powerful impression that had Barton Lambert known he would not have pressed the suit.

Perhaps Delphine would not have wished to either. She was not hurt by the revelation, to judge from her manner, but it was certainly embarrassing.

He had dined out and it was nearly nine o'clock when he reached his rooms and his manservant presented him with the evening newspapers.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized.

Rathbone saw immediately what had precipitated the remark and the look of distress upon the manservant's somber face. The headlines were lurid, vulgar and aroused speculation even further than Sacheverall had. Not a shred of dignity or honor was left to Melville-or Isaac Wolff either. Even Zillah did not escape prurient suggestions and a note of condescension masked in pity, but lacking any sense of true compassion. She was the catalyst of self-righteous anger, but no thought for her feelings came through the details and the outpouring of criticism, judgment and supposition.

Rathbone was too restless to remain at home. There was a rage inside hi m which demanded physical action, even if it was completely pointless.

He took his coat and hat and stick, not for any purpose beyond the pleasant feel of its weight in his hand, and went out to visit Monk.

However, Monk was not in, and there was no point in waiting for him in his empty and rather cold room, even though his landlady offered him the opportunity. He left again and went to his club.

He sat and brooded over a single-malt whiskey for nearly an hour, attempting to think creatively, until he was joined by an old friend who sat down in the chair opposite him, bringing another whiskey to replace the one Rathbone had nearly finished.

"Rotten business," he said sympathetically. "Never know where you'll find the beggars, do you."

Rathbone looked up. "What did you say?"

"Never know where you'll find the beggars," the man repeated. His name was Boothroyd and he was a solicitor in family law.

"What beggars?" Rathbone said edgily.

"Homosexuals." Boothroyd pushed over the glass he had brought for Rathbone. "For heaven's sake, man, don't be coy! There's nothing to protect now. Angry with yourself you didn't guess, no doubt, but then you always were a trifle naive, my dear chap. Always thinking in terms of the greater crimes, murder, arson and grand theft, not sordid little bedroom perversions. Looking beyond the mark."

A turmoil of thoughts boiled up in Rathbone's mind, awareness that Boothroyd was right in that he should have thought of it, blind rage at the man's complacency and ignorance of the torrent of pain he was dismissing with a few callous sentences, and then a deeper stirring of a different kind of questioning and anger that these judgments were even a matter of law.

He looked up at Boothroyd and ignored the whiskey.

"I suppose I imagined that what a man did in his bedroom, providing he injured no one, was his own affair," he said clearly and very distinctly.

Boothroyd was startled. His rather bulbous eyes widened in amazement.

"Are you saying you approve of buggery?" he asked, his voice lifting sharply at the end of the word in incredulity.

"There are a lot of things I don't approve of," Rathbone answered with the careful enunciation which marked his icy temper. "I don't approve of a man who uses his wife without love or consideration for her feelings. I don't approve of a woman who sells her body to obtain material goods, or power, or any other commodity, in or outside marriage. I don't approve of cruelty, physical or of the mind." He stared at Boothroyd unwaveringly. "I don't approve of lies or manipulation or coercion or blackmail. Por that matter, I don't approve of greed or idleness or jealousy. But I do not believe we should improve our society by attempting to legislate against them. All one would do is turn every petty-minded busybody and every mealymouthed gossip into a spy, a snoop and a telltale."

Boothroyd was staring at him as if he could scarcely believe his ears.

"Of all the things I disapprove of," Rathbone went on, lowering his voice a little, but still just as passionate and just as freezingly angry, "I think that two men loving each other in the privacy of their own homes, involving no outsiders, is neither my business nor is it my interest, and I have no desire to make it so."

"I am surprised you call it love," Boothroyd said with some astringence. "Although perhaps I should not be."

"Love is a euphemism for a lot of relationships," Rathbone snapped back, feeling his cheeks burn as he understood what Boothroyd meant, but the rage in him refused to correct it, dear as he knew it might cost him.

"The Bible says it is a sin," Boothroyd pointed out. "I think all Christian men agree."

"So is lusting after a woman in your heart," Rathbone pointed out. "Christ was rather specific about that. Most of us are guilty of it nevertheless. I am, and will probably continue to be. Would you legislate against it?"

"Don't be absurd!"

"Precisely," Rathbone agreed between clenched teeth, his voice crystalline with precision. "There are a great many things which are better left to God to judge, and I think whatever Melville or Wolff does in private is among them."

"You are in a minority!" Boothroyd replied sharply, drinking the whiskey he had originally brought for Rathbone and rising to his feet.

"That does not make me wrong," Rathbone answered him.

"It will make you damned well misunderstood!" Boothroyd warned.

"So I see." Rathbone arched his brows sarcastically and remained sitting. "But I do not find that an adequate reason to change."

"On your own head be it!" Boothroyd turned and walked away, leaving Rathbone furious, embarrassed and frightened, but absolutely determined not to change.