Other consequences of his choice of freedom had meanwhile not waited to exact their toll. To his finally achieved letter to Mr. Freeman he received no answer for ten days. But then he had to sign for one, delivered ominously by hand, from Mr. Freeman’s solicitors.

Charles took the letter to his own solicitors. They had handled the Smithson family affairs since the eighteenth century. And the present younger Montague, facing whose desk the confessed sinner now shamefacedly sat, was only a little older than Charles himself. The two men had been at Winchester together; and without being close friends, knew and liked each other well enough.

“Well, what does it mean, Harry?”

“It means, my dear boy, that you have the devil’s own luck. They have cold feet.”

“Then why should they want to see me?”

“They won’t let you off altogether, Charles. That is asking too much. My guess is that you will be asked to make a confessio delicti.”

“A statement of guilt?”

“Just so. I am afraid you must anticipate an ugly document. But I can only advise you to sign it. You have no case.”

On that Friday afternoon Charles and Montague were ushered into a funereal waiting room in one of the Inns of Court. Charles felt it was something like a duel; Montague was his second. They were made to cool their heels until a quarter past three. But since this preliminary penance had been predicted by Montague, they bore it with a certain nervous amusement.

At last they were summoned. A short and choleric old man rose from behind a large desk. A little behind him stood Mr. Freeman. He had no eyes but for Charles, and they were very cold eyes indeed; all amusement vanished. Charles bowed to him, but no acknowledgment was made. The two solicitors shook hands curtly. There was a fifth person present: a tall, thin, balding man with penetrating dark eyes, at the sight of whom Montague imperceptibly flinched.

“You know Mr. Serjeant Murphy?”

“By reputation only.”

A serjeant-at-law was in Victorian times a top counsel; and Serjeant Murphy was a killer, the most feared man of his day.

Mr. Aubrey peremptorily indicated the chairs the two visitors were to take, then sat down himself again. Mr. Freeman remained implacably standing. Mr. Aubrey shuffled papers, which gave Charles time he did not want to absorb the usual intimidating atmosphere of such places: the learned volumes, the rolls of sheepskin bound in green ferret, the mournful box-files of dead cases ranged high around the room like the urns of an overpopulated columbarium.

The old solicitor looked severely up.

“I think, Mr. Montague, that the facts of this abominable breach of engagement are not in dispute. I do not know what construction your client has put upon his conduct to you. But he has himself provided abundant evidence of his own guilt in this letter to Mr. Freeman, though I note that with the usual impudence of his kind he has sought to—”

“Mr. Aubrey, such language in these circumstances—”

Serjeant Murphy pounced, “Would you prefer to hear the language I should use, Mr. Montague—and in open court?”

Montague took a breath and looked down. Old Aubrey stared at him with a massive disapproval. “Montague, I knew your late grandfather well. I fancy he would have thought twice before acting for such a client as yours—but let that pass for the nonce. I consider this letter…” and he held it up, as if with tongs “… I consider this disgraceful letter adds most impertinent insult to an already gross injury, both by its shameless attempt at self-exoneration and the complete absence from it of any reference to the criminal and sordid liaison that the writer well knows is the blackest aspect of his crime.” He glowered at Charles. “You may, sir, have thought Mr. Freeman not to be fully cognizant of your amours. You are wrong. We know the name of the female with whom you have entered into such base conversation. We have a witness to circumstances I find too disgusting to name.”

Charles flushed red. Mr. Freeman’s eyes bored into him. He could only lower his head; and curse Sam. Montague spoke.

“My client did not come here to defend his conduct.”

“Then you would not defend an action?”

“A person of your eminence in our profession must know that I cannot answer that question.”

Serjeant Murphy intervened again. “You would not defend an action if one were brought?”

“With respect, sir, I must reserve judgment on that matter.”

A vulpine smile distorted the serjeant-at-law’s lips.

“The judgment is not at issue, Mr. Montague.”

“May we proceed, Mr. Aubrey?”

Mr. Aubrey glanced at the Serjeant, who nodded grim assent.

“This is not an occasion, Mr. Montague, when I should advise too much standing upon plea.” He shuffled papers again. “I will be brief. My advice to Mr. Freeman has been clear. In my long experience, my very long experience, this is the vilest example of dishonorable behavior I have ever had under my survey. Even did not your client merit the harsh judgment he would inevitably receive, I believe firmly that such vicious conduct should be exhibited as a warning to others.” He left a long silence, then, for the words to sink deep. Charles wished he could control the blood in his cheeks. Mr. Freeman at least was now looking down; but Serjeant Murphy knew very well how to use a flushing witness. He put on what admiring junior counsel called his basilisk quiz, in which irony and sadism were nicely prominent.

Mr. Aubrey, in a somber new key, went on. “However, for reasons I shall not go into, Mr. Freeman has elected to show a mercy the case in no way warrants. He does not, upon conditions, immediately have it in mind to proceed.”

Charles swallowed, and glanced at Montague.

“I am sure my client is grateful to yours.”

“I have, with esteemed advice…” Mr. Aubrey bowed briefly towards the serjeant, who bobbed his head without taking his eyes off the wretched Charles “… prepared an admission of guilt. I should instruct you that Mr. Freeman’s decision not to proceed immediately is most strictly contingent upon your client’s signing, on this occasion and in our presence, and witnessed by all present, this document.”

And he handed it to Montague, who glanced at it, then looked up.

“May I request five minutes’ discussion in private with my client?”

“I am most surprised you should find discussion necessary.” He puffed up a little, but Montague stood firm. “Then very well, very well. If you must.”

So Harry Montague and Charles found themselves back in the funereal waiting room. Montague read the document, then handed it drily to Charles.

“Well, here’s your medicine. You’ve got to take it, dear boy.”

And while Montague stared out at the window, Charles read the admission of guilt.

I, Charles Algernon Henry Smithson, do fully, freely and not upon any consideration but my desire to declare the truth, admit that:

1. I contracted to marry Miss Ernestina Freeman;

2. I was given no cause whatsoever by the innocent party (the said Miss Ernestina Freeman) to break my solemn contract with her;

3. I was fully and exactly apprised of her rank in society, her character, her marriage portion and future prospects before my engagement to her hand and that nothing I learned subsequently of the aforesaid Miss Ernestina Freeman in any way contradicted or denied what I had been told;