Doubt? Confusion? Guilt? Had she imagined that they would not come up with her in the elevator to the sixteenth floor? That they would be left behind on the street with the newsboys? Was nothing of Edward to remain pure? Was it all to be dragged through the press—even his last will and testament? Even this, then, was a mess like all the rest. She felt it like ashes to eat, inside her, all around her, and she suddenly bowed her head, hid her face behind one hand as if to hide from the exposure, from life itself.

“Couldn’t he have left a clear will?” she groaned. But no, it was all mixed together, his body, his beliefs, his money, his blood all thrown down for the dogs to tear. There was no escape from what Edward had done. It was everywhere.

Mr. Rand and Mr. Wainwright exchanged a glance.

“You must get some rest, Mrs. Ferrier,” Mr. Rand said quite gently. “All this is very upsetting for you.”

“Yes,” she said drily, getting up, “yes, it is.”