Monk knew it. "What about Mrs. Lambert?" he asked.

"Just as spotless, so far as I know," Sandeman replied. "Her reputation is excellent. A trifle ambitious for her daughter, but I am not sure that is regarded as a fault. If it is, you can charge nine tenths of the mothers in London with the same offense."

"Where does she come from?"

"No idea." Sandeman's eyes widened. "Do you imagine Melville cares?"

"No. I suppose I am trying any possibility. Could their daughter be illegitimate?"

"No," Sandeman said with a slight laugh. “I happen to know that she is eighteen years old, and the Lamberts recently celebrated the twentieth anniversary of their wedding. It was mentioned the evening I was there. It was several months ago now, seven or eight. And would it change Melville's view of her?" He shrugged again, wrinkling his clothes still further. "Yes, I suppose it could. Might not know who the father was. Could be anybody."

Monk forbore from observing that that could be said of many people. It was a point Sandeman might find offensive. He could think of nothing else to explore, no more to ask that might elicit a useful answer. He rose to his feet and offered his thanks.

"I hope you can help," Sandeman said with a frown, "ft seems like an ugly situation which should never have happened. Lovers' quarrel, do you suppose? Two young people with more feeling than sense, high temperament of an artist crossed with the emotions of a young girl, overexcited, perhaps suffering a little from nervousness?"

"Could be," Monk conceded. "But it's gone too far now. It is already in the courts."

"What a shame," Sandeman said sincerely. "If I hear anything, I shall advise you." And Monk had to be content with that.

He spent a chilly and exhausting afternoon viewing the latest building close to completion to the plans of Killian Melville. First he had to seek the permission of a dubious caretaker, then pick his way over planks and racks of plaster and past busy craftsmen.

It was an uncomfortable experience. He did not want to feel any involvement with Melville, and already a sense of the young architect's vision was forcing itself upon him. There was light everywhere around him as he stood in the main floor, where Carrara marble was being laid. It was not cold light, not pale, bleaching of color or fading, but giving an air of expansion and freedom. It was almost as if the interior could be as unrestricting as the outside with its clean, soaring lines and uncluttered facades. It was extremely modern, avant-garde, and yet also timeless.