William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

circumstances, a quality of intelligence, a light inside him.
    “For God’s sake,” Rathbone urged, “tell me if you know something about Zillah Lambert! I won’t use it in open court, but I can make Sacheverall speak to his client, and they might withdraw. Is it something you know and her father doesn’t? Are you protecting her?”
    Melville smiled, and there was a spark of laughter far behind the brilliance of his eyes. “No.”
    “If she’s worth ruining yourself over, then she won’t let you do this,” Rathbone went on, leaning a little closer to him. “As things are, you can’t win!” He put his hand on Melville’s arm and felt him flinch. “You can’t avoid reality much longer. Today, or tomorrow at the latest, Sacheverall will conclude his case, and I have nothing to fight him with. Just give me the truth! Trust me!”
    Melville smiled, his shoulders sagging, his voice low. “There is nothing to tell you. I appear to have given you an impossible case. I’m sorry.”
    He got no further because Sacheverall came across the floor, looking at them with a faint curl to his lips, his head high, a swagger in his walk. He was even more satisfied with himself than he had been when they adjourned. He sat down in his chair, and the moment after the clerk called the court to order. It was still half empty.
    McKeever took his place.
    “Mr. Sacheverall?” he enquired. His face was almost devoid of expression, his mild blue eyes curious and innocent. If he had come to any conclusions himself he did not betray them in his manner.
    Sacheverall rose to his feet. He was smiling. There was satisfaction in every inch of him. Even his floppy hair and protruding ears seemed cavalier, a mark of individuality rather than blemishes.
    “I call Isaac Wolff,” he said distinctly. He half turned towards Melville, then resisted the temptation. It was a sign of how sure he was of himself. Rathbone recognized it.
    “Who is Wolff?” he said under his breath to Melville.
    “A friend,” Melville replied without turning his head.
    “Of whose? Yours or Lambert’s?”
    “Mine. Lambert has never met him, so far as I know.” His voice was so soft Rathbone had to strain to hear it.
    “Then why is Sacheverall calling him?” Rathbone demanded. Sacheverall was not bluffing. He showed that in every inch of his stance, his broad shoulders, the angle of his head, the ease in him.
    “I don’t know,” Melville answered, lifting his eyes a little to watch as a tall man with saturnine features walked across the open space of the floor and climbed the steps of the witness-box. He faced the court, staring at Sacheverall. His eyes seemed black under his level brows, and his thick hair, falling sideways over one temple, was as dense as coal. It was a passionate, compelling face, and he stared at Sacheverall with guarded dislike. No one could mistake that he was there against his will.
    “Mr. Wolff,” Sacheverall began, relishing the moment, “are you acquainted with Mr. Killian Melville, the defendant in this case?”
    “Yes.”
    Rathbone looked across at the jury to see their reaction. There was a stirring of interest, no more. They were inexperienced in courtroom tactics. They did not understand Sacheverall’s confidence and were only half convinced of it.
    “Well acquainted, sir?” Sacheverall’s voice was gentle and he smiled as he spoke.
    A flicker of annoyance crossed Wolff’s eyes and mouth but he did not allow it into his words.
    “I have known him for some time. I do not know how you wish me to measure acquaintance.”
    Sacheverall held up his hand in a broad gesture. “Oh! But you will, Mr. Wolff, you will. It is precisely the point I am coming to. Give me leave to do it in my own way. How did you meet Mr. Melville?”
    The judge glanced towards Rathbone, half inviting himto object that the question was irrelevant. Rathbone knew there was no point in doing so. To challenge would only show Rathbone’s desperation. He shook his head momentarily and McKeever looked away again.
    “Mr. Wolff?” Sacheverall prompted. “Surely you recall?”
    Wolff smiled, showing his teeth. “It was some years ago, about twelve. I’m not sure that I do.”
    It was not the answer Sacheverall had wished. Rathbone could tell that from the sharp way he moved his arm back. But he had opened the way for it himself.
    “Was it a social occasion, Mr. Wolff, or a professional one?”
    “Social.”
    “You have recalled it,