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.