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But there remained in him something concealed, elusive. The core of the man was shielded and, to Rathbone at least, inaccessible. He had made no judgment within himself.
He reached the house in which Wolff had rooms and pulled the bell at the door. A manservant showed him in and up the stairs to a very gracious hall opening into apartments which took up the whole of the front of the house.
Isaac Wolff admitted him and led him to a sitting room which overlooked the street, but the windows were sufficiently well curtained that the sense of privacy was in no way marred. It was old-fashioned. There was nothing of the grace and imagination of Killian Melville's architecture, but it was also restful and extremely pleasing. The furniture was dark and heavy, the walls lined with books, although there was no time to look and see what subjects they covered.
Wolff stared at him levelly and with a cold intensity. It was not unfriendly, but it was guarded. He was anticipating attack. Rathbone wondered if it had happened before-suspicion, accusation, i
"Good afternoon, Mr. Wolff." Rathbone found himself apologetic. This was an intrusion any man would loathe. "I'm sorry, but I have to speak to you about today's evidence. I have already consulted with Mr. Sacheverall, and it is possible he may persuade Mr. Lambert to settle without returning to court, but it is a very slender hope, and we certainly ca
Wolff took a deep breath and let it out silently. A very slight smile touched his lips.
"You must be extremely effective, Sir Oliver. What on earth did you say to him that he would even consider settling? He seems to have won outright. What he says is untrue, but there is no way I could prove it."
"No one can ever prove such things," Rathbone agreed, coming a step or two farther into the room and taking the seat Wolff indicated to him. "That is the nature of slander. It works by i
"Yours?" Wolff looked surprised. He remained standing, his back now to the window, silhouetted against it. "Who could you slander, and how would it help? Would it not simply reduce Melville to the appearance of a viciousness born of desperation?"
"Yes, probably. And it is not inconceivable he would refuse to do it anyway," Rathbone conceded. "But Sacheverall does not know that, nor dare he rely upon it. He ca
"He wouldn't," Wolff said simply. There was no doubt in his eyes, only a kind of bitter, powerful laughter.
"I believe you," Rathbone acknowledged, and he spoke honestly. He surprised himself, but he felt no uncertainty at all that Melville would accept complete destruction before he would sink to saying something of Zillah Lambert he knew to be untrue. He was a man whose behavior in the whole affair was a succession of acts which did not have any apparent logical or emotional line of co
Something eased in Wolff's demeanor, something indefinable it was so slight. He was waiting for Rathbone to explain.
"Sacheverall is risking his client's well-being as well as his own, so he has to be certain." Rathbone crossed his legs and smiled up at Wolff, not in humor or even comfort, but in a certain sense of communication that they were in alliance against an attitude, a set of beliefs which they both found repellent but that was too delicate to be given words. "And he may guess or judge that Melville will not react with attack, but he will not judge it of me. He knows better. I too will behave in the interests of my client, not necessarily having sought his permission first."
"Would you?" Wolff said quietly.
"I don't know." Rathbone smiled at himself. It was true; he did not know what he would reveal were Monk to discover anything. What he did know, without doubt, was that he would drive Monk to learn every jot there was to know: about Zillah Lambert, her father, her mother, and anyone else who could conceivably have any bearing on the case. "I don't know if there is anything, but then neither does Sacheverall."
Wolff let out his breath slowly.
"But I must know what they can learn about Melville," Rathbone went on reluctantly. "Not what is true or untrue… but what witnesses can he call and what will they say?"
Wolff stiffened again and his voice was u
"Overnight?"
"No."
Rathbone was not sure if there had been a hesitation or if he had imagined it. He was not even sure how much it mattered. Once an idea was sown in someone's mind, without realizing it, memory became slanted towards what was believed. No deception need be intended, nevertheless it was carried out, and when a thing had been put into words it assumed a kind of reality. No one wanted to go back upon testimony. It was embarrassing. The longer one clung to it and the more often it was repeated, the harder it was to alter.
"Anything else?" Rathbone asked. "No more than that? Please tell me the truth, Mr. Wolff. I ca
But Wolff was as stubborn as Melville. He gave the same blank stare and denied it again.
"How long have you known Melville?" Rathbone pursued.
Wolff thought for a moment. "About twelve years, I think, maybe a little less."
"Do you know why he changed his mind about marrying Miss Lambert?"
Wolff was still standing with his back to the window, but the light was shining on the side of his face, and Rathbone could see his expression clearly. There was no change in it, no shadow.
"He didn't," he replied. "He never intended to. He liked her. It was a friendship which he believed she shared in the same spirit. He was appalled when he realized both she and her family read something quite different into it."
Rathbone could see there was no point in attempting to learn anything more from Wolff. He considered asking neighbors himself, but Monk would be far more skilled at it, and he had other things to do. He rose to his feet and excused himself, thanking Wolff for his time and warning him that their hopes of settling without returning to court were still negligible. He left feeling angry and disappointed, although he could not have named what he had hoped to find.
"What do you want me to discover?" Monk asked as they sat together over an excellent meal of roast saddle of mutton and spring vegetables. They were in one of Rathbone's favorite hostelries; he had invited Monk to join him partly because it was a miserable case he was requesting him to follow, but largely because he felt like indulging himself in an undeniable pleasure, like good food, good drink, a roaring fire and someone to wait upon him with courtesy and a cheerful ma
"The worst they can find for themselves, or create out of confused and prejudiced observations," he answered Monk's question as the serving girl left a tankard of ale for them and he acknowledged it with thanks.