Monk left after only the briefest word with Rathbone. There really was nothing to say. They both knew before they went in what the verdict would be, and the pain of it would only be made worse by standing around talking about it. They had done their best, and it had not been good enough. Of course, they never expected to win every case. No one did. But losing did not grow easier.

He came down the steps into the street and hailed the first hansom he saw, directing the driver to Tavistock Square. He should tell Hester what had happened in person rather than allow her to read it or hear about it. Anyway, now that it was no longer a cause célèbre it would only be a small item on a back page. She might not even see it.

And he wanted to share the burden of his feelings about it with someone to whom it needed no explanation and who would understand without his needing to tell anything but the bare facts.

He was welcomed as usual and shown into the withdrawing room. He asked to see Hester, and this time there was no wailing. She came after barely five minutes, and a glance at his face told her why he had come.

"It's over?" She came in and closed the door behind her. There was a small fire burning and the room looked gentle and very domestic, shabby enough to feel at ease.

"Yes... it's over. Suicide."

She looked at him closely, studying his eyes, his face. For several moments she did not say anything more, simply sharing in silence the complex unhappiness of the knowledge. All sorts of questions and ideas went through his mind as to whether they could have done differently, what he had expected, but none of them were worth putting into words. He knew what her answer would be, and that very fact was comfortable.

"How is Oliver?" she said at last.

He laughed very slightly, abruptly. "Extraordinary ... quite out of character," he answered, then wondered immediately if that was so. Perhaps Rathbone had instead found a truer part of himself. "He told the court, and the public, what he thought of their general prejudice and of the value of women for their prettiness and docility, and led the way for the coroner to express his highly unflattering opinion of Sacheverall." He remembered it with surprising pleasure as he said it.

She smiled, a slow, sad smile, but with a gentleness he realized he had seen in her often.

"Poor Oliver. He is not used to feeling so violently. I think he cared about Melville more than most of his cases. I've never seen him so angry."