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
