"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.