Rathbone was aware of a sense of physical fear. Ballinger was a big man, broad and heavy. He was going to be hanged in two weeks anyhow—what had he to lose? Did he also blame Rathbone for his conviction? Sweat broke out on Rathbone’s body, and his stomach knotted. His mind raced.

“Can you tell me something with which to plead for clemency?” he said, surprised how steady his voice sounded. “So far you have claimed that you are not guilty, but if Parfitt attacked you, there might be some way of making his death a matter of self-defense.”

“And say I’m guilty?” Ballinger responded angrily. “Haven’t you got any bloody sense at all? If I killed Parfitt, then obviously I killed Hattie Benson as well. What excuse do I give for that?”

Rathbone felt the heat burn up his face. Ballinger was right; it had been a stupid suggestion, given without thought.

“I need the verdict reversed, not some pathetic plea for clemency,” Ballinger went on. “Prove Rupert Cardew killed Parfitt, because he was blackmailing him and he couldn’t pay anymore.”

Rathbone was cold. The room could have been walled with ice. The man he saw in front of him was a stranger.

“Did you kill Parfitt?” he asked.

“Of course I did!” Ballinger snapped. “But the verdict was only on balance of probability. You could still make it look like Cardew. Clearly the same person killed the girl as well, so I’d be free of both charges.”

Now Rathbone was shivering. It was a nightmare. He must be at home, asleep uncomfortably, and he would wake up. All this would disappear.

Ballinger took another step toward him.

“I can’t,” Rathbone said grimly, refusing to move backward. “There are no grounds for appeal.”

“Then make some, Oliver.”

Rathbone said nothing. This was ridiculous. He could understand desperation. He had seen it many times before, even refusal to acknowledge the fact of one’s own death. But it was usually an insane hope, not a demand for something of which there was no possibility. And Ballinger had seemed anything but a weak man.

“Don’t stand there in self-righteous horror,” Ballinger said sharply. “You know nothing about it. Parfitt was filth, a parasite on human depravity.”

“I know that,” Rathbone replied. “And if I could have mitigated your killing him, I would have. But I will not blame someone else for it.”

“You think Rupert Cardew is so worth saving?” Now Ballinger’s voice was a snarl, his face ugly with contempt. “He’s another kind of parasite—useless, worthless, utterly selfish. Not even an honest passion of vice. Just bled his father dry, then when he was in trouble, turned on his friends.”

“His friends being the other men who used those wretched children, and were blackmailed for it?” Rathbone asked.