There was no answer other than to find out who had hired Arthur Ballinger to retain Rathbone in Phillips's defense. He had already asked, and been refused. It must be done without Ballinger's knowledge. Ballinger had said it was a client; therefore, it would be in his official books at his chambers. The money would have gone through the accounts, because it was the office that had passed it to Rathbone.

Since it was a client, and money was involved, it would have been noted by Cribb, Ballinger's meticulous clerk. It must have begun roughly the time Ballinger had first come to Rathbone and continued until the time of the trial and Phillips's acquittal. If Rathbone could find a list of Ballinger's clients between those times, it would be a matter of eliminating those whose cases had been heard in some other matter and would now be public knowledge, or of course those still pending but due to come to trial soon.

But he could hardly go to Ballinger's office and ask to see his books. The refusal would be automatic, and cause highly uncomfortable questions. It would make the relationships between Rathbone and his father-in-law virtually impossible, and obviously Margaret would be aware of it.

Yet it would be wildly dangerous to pay someone else to do it, even if he could find anyone with the requisite skills. The temptation to extort blackmail afterwards would be almost overwhelming, not to mention the chance to sell the information elsewhere, possibly to Phillips himself.

There was only one answer. Rathbone would have to devise a way to do it himself. The thought made him thoroughly miserable. A kind of sour chill settled in the pit of his stomach. After all, he had no idea who might be blackmailed by Phillips. Who were the victims of such appetites as he fed, and thus could be manipulated as Phillips wished? It could be any of the men Rathbone had previously considered his friends, honorable and skilled.

And then an even more painful thought forced itself into his understanding. If people were aware of Phillips and his trade, they might equally well think such things of Rathbone himself! Why not? He was the one who had defended him, and gained his acquittal at the price of his own previously treasured friendships.

Yes, tomorrow he must go to Ballinger's office and find the records. He really had no other endurable choice.

It was one thing to make up his mind; it was quite another to execute the plan. The following morning as his cab set him down outside Ballinger's offices, he realized exactly how far apart he and Ballinger were. He knew from past experience that Ballinger himself would not be in for at least another hour, but the excellent Cribb was always prompt. Had the offices been any other than those of his father-in-law, he would have considered trying to lure Cribb away and into his own service.

“Good morning, Sir Oliver,” Cribb said with courtesy that bordered on genuine pleasure. He was a man of about forty-five, but with an ascetic air that made him seem older. He was of average height and had a lean, bony face that showed intelligence and a very carefully concealed humor.

“Good morning, Cribb,” Rathbone replied. “I hope you are well?”

“Very, thank you, sir. I am afraid Mr. Ballinger is not in yet. Is there anything with which I can assist you?”

Already Rathbone loathed what he was doing. How much easier it was to be honest. The embarrassment and strain of this was awful.

“Thank you,” he accepted. He must cast the die quickly or he would lose his nerve. “I believe there is.” He lowered his voice. “It has come to my knowledge, and of course I cannot tell you from whom, that one of Mr. Ballinger's clients may be involved in something distinctly unethical. A matter of playing one person against another, if you understand me?”

“How very distasteful,” Cribb said with some sympathy. “If you wish me to inform Mr. Ballinger, of course I shall do so. Perhaps you would prefer to leave it in writing for him? I can give you pen and paper, and an envelope with wax to seal it.”

Rathbone smothered his scruples with an effort. “Thank you, but I have nothing sufficiently specific so far. I know only when the man in question was here. If I might glance at his diary for the period it would confirm any suspicions, or deny them.”

Cribb looked troubled, as Rathbone had known he would. “I'm very sorry, sir, but I cannot show you Mr. Ballinger's diary. It is confidential, as I am sure your diary is.” He shifted his weight very slightly from one foot to the other. “I know you would not wish anything… wrong…, sir.”

Rathbone did not have to try to look confused. “No, I would not,” he agreed. “I had hoped that if I explained my dilemma to you, you might have some idea how to solve it. You see, the difficulty is that the man may well be a personal friend of Mr. Ballinger's, so much so that he may refuse to believe it of him, until it is too late. Unless I can prove it.”

“Oh dear,” Cribb said quietly. “Yes, I perceive your difficulty, Sir Oliver. I am afraid Mr. Ballinger is more charitable in some of his judgments than perhaps the circumstances justify.”

Rathbone understood exactly. That was Cribb's loyal way of admitting that Ballinger did not choose all his friends with care.

“Perhaps, sir, we might discuss this problem in my office? It might be more discreet, if you don't mind,” Cribb suggested.

“Of course,” Rathbone agreed. “Thank you.” He followed Cribb to the tiny room, barely more than a large cupboard, where a well-polished desk was crowded in between walls covered from floor to ceiling with shelves of files. Cribb closed the door, as much for room so that they might both sit as for privacy. He looked at the wall briefly, knowing exactly where every file and folder was.

Rathbone followed his glance to the diary for the month in question.

“This is a very difficult problem indeed,” Cribb said, facing Rathbone again. “I really don't know what is for the best, Sir Oliver. I have the greatest respect for you, and I am aware that you are concerned for Mr. Ballinger's welfare, both professional and personal. I need to think on this very deeply. Perhaps I might fetch you a cup of tea so we may discuss it in some comfort?”

“Thank you,” Rathbone accepted. “That would be very good of you.”

Cribb hesitated an instant, looking very steadily at Rathbone, then he excused himself and left, closing the door behind him.

Rathbone felt vile, as if he were about to steal something. The diary was on the shelf. He was committed. Whether he looked at it now or not, Cribb would believe that he had.

What was Rathbone trying to do? Find the truth, whoever it saved, or lost.

He took the book down and searched the right pages. Rapidly, little more than scribbling, he took down the names. He was barely finished and had only just replaced the diary on the shelf when Cribb returned, carefully making a noise with his feet on the boards outside before he opened the door.

Cribb set the tea tray down on the desk.

“Thank you,” Rathbone said, his mouth dry.

“Shall I pour, sir?” Cribb offered.

“If you please.” Rathbone found that his own hands were shaking. He considered offering Cribb some kind of appreciation. What would be suitable, and not insulting? Thirty pieces of silver?

Cribb poured the tea, a cup for Rathbone, nothing for himself.

It was the most difficult thing Rathbone had ever swallowed. It tasted sour, and he was aware that it was he himself who had poisoned it.

“Thank you,” he said aloud. He wanted to add something, but it was all contrived, insulting.

“You are welcome, Sir Oliver,” Cribb replied calmly. He appeared to see nothing odd in Rathbone's manner, in fact to be totally unaware of his appalling discomfort. “I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and I am afraid I can think of no solution for it.”