"Good evening, Sergeant. I am sorry to intrude into your home, and at such an uncivil hour. If I could have found you at the police station I would have."

"What can I do for you, Sir Oliver?" Michael asked. He was courteous but wary. Rathbone was of both a class and a profession he was unused to dealing with except in court, where the duty of their offices prescribed the behavior for both of them. He was acutely conscious of his grandfather sitting, tired and hungry, waiting to be assisted. But he was by nature, as well as occupation, a gentle-mannered man.

"I have undertaken to defend Mrs. Anderson against the charge of murder," Rathbone replied with a faint, self-deprecating smile. He could not pretend to anyone he hoped for much success, and he did not wish Robb to think him a fool. "The question of theft is another matter."

"I’m sorry," Michael said, and there was sincerity in his face as well as his voice. "1 took no pleasure in charging her. But I can’t withdraw it."

"I understand that. It provides the motive for the murder of Treadwell."

"Are you talking about Cleo Anderson?" the old man interrupted, looking from one to the other of them.

Michael’s face tightened, and he shot Rathbone a look of reproach. "Yes, Grandpapa."

Rathbone had the strong impression that if Michael could have escaped with a lie about it he would have done so to protect the old man from knowledge which could only hurt. Had he any knowledge how much he also was compromised? Did he guess the debt he owed Cleo Anderson?

The old man looked at Rathbone. "And you’re going to defend her, young man?" He regarded Rathbone up and down, from his beautifully made boots and tailored trousers to his coat and silk cravat. "And what’s an officer-type gentleman, with a title an’ all, doing defending a woman like Mrs. Anderson, who in’t got two pence to rub together?" He cared about Cleo too much to be in awe of anyone. His faded eyes met Rathbone’s without a flicker.

"I don’t want payment, Mr. Robb," Rathbone answered. "I undertook it as a favor to a friend, Mrs. Monk. I believe you know her...." He saw the flash of recognition and of pleasure in the old man’s face, and felt a warmth within himself. "And I am continuing out of regard for Mrs. Anderson herself, now that I have met her."

Michael was looking at him with anxiety. Rathbone knew what he feared, perhaps better than he did himself. He feared the same thing, and even more keenly. He did not have to look at the cabinet shelf in the far corner to be aware of the medicines that first Cleo had brought, and now he was terrified Hester would continue to bring. There was no point in asking her not to, and he was in no position to forbid her—he doubted even Monk would succeed in that. Altogether, it would be wiser not to try. It would provoke a quarrel and waste time and energy they all needed to address the problem rather than fight each other. The chances of success in dissuading Hester, in his opinion, did not exist.