Walking in the still uncompleted galleries, Monk found himself relaxing. He went through an archway into a farther hall, sun reflecting through a huge rose window along a pale floor, this time of wood. The other windows were very high and round, above the picture line, filling the arched ceiling with more light. He found himself smiling. He enjoyed being there, almost as if he were in the company of someone he liked. There was a kind of communication of joy in beauty, even in life.

What would make a man who could create such things ask a woman to marry him and then break his word? Was it as he had told Rathbone, simply that he had been so naive to the ways of the world that he had allowed himself to form a friendship which was misunderstood? The whole wedding had been arranged around him, and he had at no time the grasp to understand it—or the courage to disclaim and retreat?

These buildings were created by a mind of burning clarity and aspiration, a strength of will to dare anything. Such a man could never be a coward. Nor could he be a deceiver. There was a simplicity of line and conception which was in itself a kind of honesty.

Without realizing it, Monk had clenched his fists; his whole body was stiff with determination and an inner anger in his will to preserve this, to defend whoever was the person whose spirit was embodied there. He had always judged a man not by what he said but by what he did, the choices he made, when it was difficult, dangerous, when he had much to lose. This building soared to the sky with Killian Melville's choices.

He had entered not wanting to like Melville, not wanting to care one way or the other. He walked out rapidly, his feet loud and brisk on the wood and marble floors, and through the entrance door down steps to the square. He did not even bother to excuse himself to the caretaker. The wind was sharp and growing colder. The sun was already lowering and filling the west over the rooftops with an apricot glow. How could he help Melville? What was he hiding, and above all, why did he not trust Rathbone with it?

Was he protecting himself or someone else? Zillah Lambert herself?

There was no time before Monday morning and the trial's resumption to discuss anything but the most superficial facts. The most urgent thing to learn was if there had been some incident in Melville's life he was afraid might come to light and ruin him. It must be something Sacheverall could find out, or Rathbone would have no need to fear it.