"I hope they will," Sir Herbert said quietly, leaning forward over the railing with hands clasping it. "It is the truth. Perhaps I was remiss, perhaps I did not look at her as a young and romantic woman, simply as a professional upon whom I relied. And that may be a sin-for which I shall feel an eternal regret. But it is not a cause to commit murder!"

There was a brief murmur of applause from the court. Someone called out, "Hear, hear!" and Judge Hardie glanced at them. One of the jurors smiled and nodded.

"Do you wish to reexamine your witness, Mr. Rathbone?" Hardie asked.

"No thank you, my lord," Rathbone declined graciously.

Hardie excused Sir Herbert, who walked with dignity, head high, back to his place in the dock.

Rathbone called a succession of Sir Herbert's professional colleagues. He did not ask them as much as he had originally intended; Sir Herbert's impression upon the court in general had been too powerful for him to want to smother it with evidence which now seemed largely extraneous. He asked them briefly for their estimation of Sir Herbert as a colleague and each replied unhesitatingly of his great skill and dedication. He asked of his personal moral reputation and they spoke equally plainly that he was beyond reproach.

Lovat-Smith did not bother to pursue them. He made something of a show of boredom, looking at the ceiling while Rathbone was speaking, and when it was his own turn, waiting several seconds before he began. He did not exactly say that their loyalty was totally predictable-and meaningless-but he implied it. It was a ploy to bore the jury and make them forget this impression of Sir Herbert, and Rathbone knew it. He could see from the jurors' faces that they were still completely in sympathy with Sir Herbert, and further laboring of the point risked insulting their intelligence and losing their attention. He thanked the doctor at that moment on the stand and excused him, sending a message that no further colleagues would be required- except Kristian Beck.

It would have been a startling omission had he not called him, but apart from that, he wished to sow in the jurors' minds the strong possibility that it had been Beck himself who had murdered Prudence.

Kristian took the stand without the slightest idea of what awaited him. Rathbone had told him only that he would be called to witness to Sir Herbert's character.

"Dr. Beck, you are a physician and surgeon, are you not?"

"I am." Kristian looked faintly surprised. It was hardly necessary for the validity of his testimony.

"And you have practiced in several places, including your native Bohemia?" He wanted to establish in the jurors' minds Beck's foreignness, his very differentness from the essentially English, familiar Sir Herbert. It was a task he disliked, but the shadow of the noose forms strange patterns on the mind.

"Yes," Kristian agreed again.

"But you have worked with Sir Herbert Stanhope for more than ten or eleven years, is that correct?"

"About that," Kristian agreed. His accent was almost indiscernible, merely a pleasant clarity to certain vowels. "Of course we seldom actually work together, since we are in the same field, but I know his reputation, both personal and professional, and I see him frequently." His expression was open and candid, his intention to help obvious.

"I understand," Rathbone conceded. "I did not mean to imply that you worked side by side. What is Sir Herbert's personal reputation, Dr. Beck?"

A flash of amusement crossed Kristian's face, but there was no malice in it.

"He is regarded as pompous, a little overbearing, justifiably proud of his abilities and his achievements, an excellent teacher, and a man of total moral integrity." He smiled at Rathbone. "Naturally he is joked about by his juniors, and guyed occasionally-I think that is the wok!-as we all are. But I have never heard even the most irresponsible suggest his behavior toward women was other than totally correct."

"It has been suggested that he was somewhat naive concerning women." Rathbone lifted his voice questioningly. "Especially young women. Is that your observation, Dr. Beck?"

"I would have chosen the word uninterested" Kristian replied. "But I suppose naive would do. It is not something to which I previously gave any thought. But if you wish me to say that I find it extremely difficult to believe that he had any romantic interest in Nurse Barrymore, or that he would be unaware of any such feeling she might have had for him, then I can do so very easily. I find it harder to believe that Nurse Barrymore cherished a secret passion for Sir Herbert." A pucker of doubt crossed his face, and he stared at Rathbone very directly.

"You find that hard to believe, Dr. Beck?" Rathbone said very clearly.

"I do."

"Do you consider yourself a naive or unworldly man?"

Kristian's mouth curled into faint self-mockery. "No-no, I don't."

"Then if you find it surprising and hard to accept, is it hard to believe that Sir Herbert was also quite unaware of it?" Rathbone could not keep the ring of triumph out of his voice, although he tried.

Kristian looked rueful, and in spite of what Rathbone had said, surprised.

"No-no, that would seem to follow inevitably."

Rathbone thought of all the suspicions of Kristian Beck that Monk had raised to him: the quarrel overheard with Prudence, the possibilities of blackmail, the fact that Kristian Beck had been in the hospital all the night of Prudence's death, that his own patient had died when he had been expected to recover-but it was all suspicion, dark thoughts, no more. There was no proof, no hard evidence of anything. If he raised it now he might direct the jury's thoughts toward Beck as a suspect. On the other hand, he might only alienate them and betray his own desperation. It would look ugly. At the moment he had their sympathy, and that might just be enough to win the verdict. Sir Herbert's life could rest on this decision.

Should he accuse Beck? He looked at his interesting, curious face with its sensuous mouth and marvelous eyes. There was too much intelligence in it-too much humor; it was a risk he dare not take. As it was, he was winning. He knew it-and Lovat-Smith knew it.

"Thank you, Dr. Beck," he said aloud. "That is all."

Lovat-Smith rose immediately and strode toward the center of the floor.

"Dr. Beck, you are a busy surgeon and physician, are you not?"

"Yes," Kristian agreed, puckering his brows.

"Do you spend much of your time considering the possible romances within the hospital, and whether one person or another may be aware of such feelings?"

"No," Kristian confessed.

"Do you spend any time at all so involved?" Lovat-Smith pressed.

But Kristian was not so easily circumvented.

"It does not require thought, Mr. Lovat-Smith. It is a matter of simple observation one cannot avoid. I am sure you are aware of your colleagues, even when your mind is upon your profession."

This was so patently true that Lovat-Smith could not deny it. He hesitated a moment as if some argument were on the tip of his tongue, then abandoned it.

"None of them is accused of murder, Dr. Beck," he said with a gesture of resignation and vague half-rueful amusement. "That is all I have to ask you, thank you."

Hardie glanced at Rathbone.

Rathbone shook his head.

Kristian Beck left the witness stand and disappeared into the body of the court, leaving Rathbone uncertain whether he had just had a fortunate escape from making a fool of himself, or if he had just missed a profound opportunity he would not get again.

Lovat-Smith looked across at him, the light catching in his brilliant eyes, making his expression unreadable.