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of pleasure. She had an acute grasp of logic, and was surprisingly well-read, even in subjects he would not have expected a woman to know.

But he sat in silence, not daring to speak about the Phillips case, and the rift with Monk and Hester. It seemed to touch so many things. Like a drop of ink in a glass of clear water, it spread to stain everything it touched.

Still it was painful to sit in the same room, not talking to each other. He was being a coward. It must be addressed, or gradually he would lose all that he valued most. It would slip away, inch by inch, until there was nothing left to grasp. What was he afraid of, truly? That he had lost the respect of Monk and Hester? A sense of honor?

With Phillips he had won, but the victory was sour. He had been supremely clever, but he knew now that he had not been wise. Phillips was guilty, probably of having murdered Fig, but certainly of the vile abuse of many children. And, Rathbone was beginning to believe, also of the blackmail and corruption of many powerful men.

He looked across at where Margaret sat sewing, but he was careful not to meet her eyes, in case she read in him what he was thinking. He could not continue like this. The gulf was widening every day.

There was no answer other than to find out who had hired Arthur Ballinger to retain Rathbone in Phillips's defense. He had already asked, and been refused. It must be done without Ballinger's knowledge. Ballinger had said it was a client; therefore, it would be in his official books at his chambers. The money would have gone through the accounts, because it was the office that had passed it to Rathbone.

Since it was a client, and money was involved, it would have been noted by Cribb, Ballinger's meticulous clerk. It must have begun roughly the time Ballinger had first come to Rathbone and continued until the time of the trial and Phillips's acquittal. If Rathbone could find a list of Ballinger's clients between those times, it would be a matter of eliminating those whose cases had been heard in some other matter and would now be public knowledge, or of course those still pending but due to come to trial soon.

But he could hardly go to Ballinger's office and ask to see his books. The refusal would be automatic, and cause highly uncomfortable questions. It would make the relationships between Rathbone and his father-in-law virtually impossible, and obviously Margaret would be aware of it.

Yet it would be wildly dangerous to pay someone else to do it, even if he could find anyone with the requisite skills. The temptation to extort blackmail afterwards would be almost overwhelming, not to mention the chance to sell the information elsewhere, possibly to Phillips himself.

There was only one answer. Rathbone would have to devise a way to do it himself. The thought made him thoroughly miserable. A kind of sour chill settled in the pit of his stomach. After all, he had no idea who might be blackmailed by Phillips. Who were the victims of such appetites as he fed, and thus could be manipulated as Phillips wished? It could be any of the men Rathbone had previously considered his friends, honorable and skilled.

And then an even more painful thought forced itself into his understanding. If people were aware of Phillips and his trade, they might equally well think such things of Rathbone himself! Why not? He was the one who had defended him, and gained his acquittal at the price of his own previously treasured friendships.

Yes, tomorrow he must go to Ballinger's office and find the records. He really had no other endurable choice.

It was one thing to make up his mind; it was quite another to execute the plan. The following morning as his cab set him down outside Ballinger's offices, he realized exactly how far apart he and Ballinger were. He knew from past experience that Ballinger himself would not be in for at least another hour, but the excellent Cribb was always prompt. Had the offices been any other than those of his father-in-law, he would have considered trying to lure Cribb away and into his own service.

"Good morning, Sir Oliver," Cribb said with courtesy that bordered on genuine pleasure. He was a man of about forty-five, but with an ascetic air that made him seem older. He was of average