In the dock Caleb Stone started to laugh, wildly. It soared in pitch and volume until it seemed to fill the room and reverberate from the wooden paneling.

The judge banged his gavel and was ignored-it was no more than an instrument beating time to the uproar. He demanded silence, and no one even heard him. Caleb's hysterical laughter drowned out everything else. The gaolers grabbed at him, and he flung them off.

In the gallery journalists scrambled over each other to get out and grab the first hansom to race to Fleet Street and the extra editions.

Enid rose to her feet amid the clamor, looking one way, then the other. She tried to speak to Ravensbrook, but he ignored her, staring at the dock as if transfixed. He did not seem to see what was in front of him, the frenzy and the farce, only some terrible truth within him.

The judge was still banging his gavel, a sharp, thin, rhythmic sound without meaning.

Rathbone waved his hands to indicate that Selina Herries might be excused.

She swiveled around and descended the steps to the floor, her head always turned towards Caleb.

Finally the gaolers overpowered him and he was led down. Some semblance of order was restored.

Red-faced, the judge adjourned the court.

Outside in the corridor Rathbone, considerably shaken, ran into Ebenezer Goode, looking shocked and unhappy.

“Didn't think you could do it, my dear fellow,” he said with a sigh. “But from the jury's faces, I would wager now that you'll get a conviction.

Never had a client been so hellbent on his own destruction.”

Rathbone smiled, but it was a gesture of amiability, not of any pleasure.

His victory would bring a professional satisfaction, but it was curiously devoid of personal triumph. He had thought Caleb Stone totally despicable.

Now his feelings were less clear. The force of his instability, the awareness of his emotions in the room, even though he had not yet spoken, became tangled in his judgments, and he found himself awaiting his testimony with far less certainty of the outcome than Goode.

Lord and Lady Ravensbrook were standing a few yards from them. She looked ashen, but determined not to give way. She was supported by her husband.

Hester must have been temporarily dismissed, perhaps to summon the car- riage.

Ravensbrook did not hesitate to interrupt.

“Goode! I must speak with you.”

Goode turned politely, and then he saw Enid. His expression altered instantly to one of amazement and concern. Apparently he had not met her, but he surmised who she was.

“My dear lady, you must still be far from recovered. Please permit me to find you some more comfortable place to wait.”

Ravensbrook recognized his own omission with a flicker of anger, and introduced them hastily. Goode bowed, not taking his eyes from Enid's face.

In the circumstances the quality of his attention was a compliment, and she smiled, in spite of herself.

“Thank you, Mr. Goode. I think I shall wait in my carriage. I am sure Miss Latterly will return in a few moments, and I shall be quite all right until then. It is very kind of you to think of it.”

“Not at all,” he assured her. “We cannot permit you to stand, even until your carriage should come. I shall fetch a chair.” And so saying, he ignored Ravensbrook and Rathbone, marched some ten yards away, and returned carrying a large wooden chair, which he placed near the wall, and assisted Enid into it.

The matter dealt with, Ravensbrook turned to Goode again, ignoring Rathbone, although he could not have failed to know who he was.

“Is there any hope?” he said bluntly. His face was still stiff and blurred with shock.

Rathbone moved a step away, in courtesy, although he was not beyond earshot.

“Of finding the truth?” Goode raised his eyebrows. “I doubt it, my lord.

Certainly not of proving it. I daresay what happened to Angus will always be a matter of surmise. If you mean what will the verdict be, at present I think a conviction of some sort is not unlikely, although whether it will be murder or manslaughter I would not venture to say.” He took a deep breath. “We must first hear Caleb's story. That may now be different from earlier. He has heard evidence which may prompt him to speak more openly of the meeting with his brother.”

“You intend to call him?” Ravensbrook's body was rigid, his skin like paper. “Do you not fear he will damn himself out of his own mouth, if he has not already done so? I ask you in compassion not to. If you leave it as it is, plead a quarrel which got out of hand, on his behalf, then the jury may return manslaughter, or even less, perhaps only the conceding of a death.” Hope flickered boldly in his dark eyes. “That would surely be in the best interests of your client. He is quite apparently insane. Perhaps the only place for him is Bedlam.”

Goode considered it for several moments. “Possibly,” he conceded, pulling down his brows, his voice very quiet. “But the jury is not well disposed towards him. His own behavior has seen to that. Bedlam is not a place I would send a dog. I think I must give him the opportunity to tell the story himself. There is always far less likelihood of the jury believing it if he will not tell it himself.”

“Rathbone will destroy him!” Ravensbrook accused in a sudden flair of temper. “He will lose control of himself again if he is pressed, and he is frightened. Then he'll say anything, simply to shock.”

“I will make the judgment when I have spoken with him,” Goode promised.

“Although I am inclined to agree with you.”

“Thank God!”

“Of course it is his decision,” Goode added. “The man is being tried for his life. If he wishes to speak, then he must be allowed.”

“Cannot you, as his legal adviser, protect him from himself?” Ravensbrook demanded.

“I can advise him, that is all. I cannot deny him the opportunity to speak in his own defense.”

“I see.” Ravensbrook glanced at Rathbone's profile. “Then I think he has very little chance. Since I am his only living relative, and once he is convicted I may have no further opportunity to speak with him, I would like to see him, alone. Today, at least, he is still an innocent man.”

“Of course,” Goode agreed quickly. “Would you like me to arrange it for you?”

“I shall seek your help if it is necessary,” Ravensbrook answered. “I am obliged for your offer.” He glanced at Rathbone, then at Enid on her chair.

She looked at him in a long, curious, pleading gaze, as if there were a question she did not know how to frame.

If he understood, there was no reflection of it in his expression or in his bearing. He did not offer any further explanation.

“Wait for me in the carnage,” he told her. “You will be more comfortable there. Miss Latterly will be back in a few moments.” And without anything further, he took his leave, walking rapidly towards the stairs down to the cells.

Some twenty minutes later Rathbone was outside on the entrance steps to the street, talking to Monk, who had just arrived. Ebenezer Goode came striding down, his hair flying, his face ashen. He pushed past a clerk, almost knocking the man off his feet.

“What is it?” Rathbone said with a sudden upsurge of fear. “What's happened, man? You look terrible!”

Goode seized him by the arm, half turning him around.

“He's dead! It's all over. He's dead!”

“Who's dead?” Monk demanded. “What are you talking about?”

“Caleb,” his voice was hoarse. “Caleb is dead.”

“He can't be!” Rathbone knew even as he said it that it was stupid. He was trying to deny reality, because it was ugly and he did not want to believe it.

“How?” Monk asked, cutting across Rathbone. “What happened? Did he kill himself?” He swore viciously, clenching his fist in the air. “How could they be so damnably stupid? Although I don't know why I care! Better the poor devil does it himself than drag it out to the long torture of a judicial hanging. I should be glad.” He said the words between his teeth, hard and guttural. “Why can't I Rathbone looked from Monk to Goode. The same conflicting emotions tore inside him. He should have been grateful. Caleb had in effect confessed.