“We need to answer evidence.” Rathbone controlled his emotion with difficulty. He owed his loyalty to Ballinger, who was his client and, if the case actually came to trial, would be fighting for his life. He was Margaret’s father, which made him a part of Rathbone’s life that could never be turned away from or forgotten.

“Of course,” Ballinger agreed. “What evidence is it that Monk thinks he has? I cannot imagine.”

“A note, written by you, inviting Parfitt to meet you on his boat, handed over to him in front of witnesses an hour or two before his death. When Parfitt read it, he immediately sent for ’Orrie Jones to row him out.”

The color drained out of Ballinger’s face, leaving him ashen. For a moment he seemed unable to speak. It might have been shock, disbelief, but Rathbone had a terrible fear that it was guilt.

“That’s … impossible!” he said at last. “Who says so? Monk?”

“Yes. And he must have such a letter, or he would not dare claim to, even if you think him immoral enough to try.”

“Then, it’s a forgery,” Ballinger said immediately. “For God’s sake, Oliver, why on earth would I have business with a creature like Parfitt?”

“To buy him off for a client,” Rathbone answered. He was sinking into a morass of nightmare, and yet strangely his mind was going on quite reasonably, as if he were something apart, almost a bystander watching this desperate, highly civilized discussion of murder and betrayal.

Ballinger hesitated, weighing his answer.

Rathbone watched him, feeling the sweat trickle down his body in fear that Ballinger was going to admit that it was his own blackmail he’d been dealing with. After his years of criminal prosecution and defense, nothing ought to have surprised Rathbone, but he could not believe that Arthur Ballinger could have become involved with Parfitt’s vicious pornography.

Why not? Did he believe Ballinger was so moral? So happy in his present life? Or so careful? What did Rathbone think of him, not as his son-in-law, the husband of his admittedly favorite daughter, but as his lawyer, bound by duty to see the truth, because only by knowing it could he best defend him?

Rathbone realized again how very little he knew the man except in his role of successful husband and father. Alone, what was he like? What were his dreams, his fears, his pleasures? Who was he without the mask? Rathbone had no idea.

Ballinger was staring at him, still trying to decide how to answer.

“Were you acting for a client?” Rathbone repeated.