Arrived at Bruton Street, Ronnie led his self-invited guests into the little box of a work-room; and, facing the pair of them from across his mother's Empire desk, said provocatively: "Sir Peter, it's no use. I've made up my mind. As I told Jimmy when he showed me the will, my mother's wishes must be carried out."

"But what were your mother's wishes?" The white-haired, white-mustached old gentleman who had steered so many social ships clear of the rocks, smiled benignly. "What were your mother's real wishes? Naturally, both my son and I recognize her object. But, much as we appreciate the filial devotion which prompts you to carry out her exact wishes, we have to consider the spirit of those wishes. Now suppose, mind you I'm only supposing, that we publish this book. The publication, as you yourself must be the first to admit, may defeat the very object your mother had in mind when she wrote it. Moreover, quite apart from the expense to the estate----"

"But the expense is provided for, pater," interrupted Jimmy. "And in view of the testator's letter to me----"

"That letter leaves the ultimate decision with us." Sir Peter, who loathed interruptions, shot an irritated glance at his son. "If we decide that this book should not see the light of day----"

"I'll never consent to that." Ronnie's voice was the voice of a fanatic. "And besides, even if the book were not published, there's always the codicil."

"Admitted." Sir Peter frowned. "The codicil is the difficulty. I wonder if you'd mind reading it to me again, Jimmy."

Jimmy got up, fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat, drew out a bulky document, unfolded it, and began to read, very slowly, the paragraph appended in Julia Cavendish's own handwriting to the last page:

"Rather vague," commented Sir Peter. "Is it properly witnessed?"

"Yes." James Wilberforce laid the will on the desk, and stared ruminatively at his father. His father stared back at Jimmy. Both knew how impossible it would be to contest that codicil without the publicity of the courts. Both knew how fatal any publicity would be to their client.

But their client only laughed. "You see, Sir Peter, there's no way out. Even if I consented not to publish the book, this will has to be proved."

"But that means immediate publicity."

"Exactly." Ronald's mouth shut like the teeth of a pike. His eyes, in their resolution, were his mother's own. "Exactly."

Sir Peter, hitherto blandness itself, grew irritable. "You don't appear to realize, Cavendish, that the proving of this will means a terrific scandal."

"I realize that perfectly, Sir Peter. But scandal--as I see it--is the only way to effect my mother's object."

"All the same, I should not be doing my duty, either as your mother's friend or as your co-trustee, if I did not ask you before we come to any decision, to consider, first, the effect such a scandal would have on your career, and secondly, the effect it would have"--purposely the baronet paused--"on the reputation of the lady in the case."

"As far as the lady in the case is concerned," Ronnie's fingers rapped the desk-top, "her freedom is the paramount consideration."

"Is that the lady's view, or your own?" Sir Peter, seeing an ivory paper-knife near at hand, drew it quietly toward him.

"My own."

At that, Jimmy, who had been watching his friend carefully, rose and began to stride slowly up and down the little room. Quite apart from the personal issue (if the worst came to the worst, he and Mollie would have to be married by special license before the crash came!), it seemed to Jimmy that his friend must be saved, somehow or other, from the consequences of his own obstinacy. But how--how in the name of the law--could that saving be accomplished?

"And if the lady disapproves?" said Sir Peter.

"She will not disapprove," countered Ronnie.

In the pause which followed, Jimmy drew out Julia Cavendish's letter, and read it for the tenth time.

"Don't you think"--James Wilberforce put the letter back in his pocket and turned to Ronnie, who was eying his father in positive hostility--"that it might be advisable to discuss this matter with--Hector Brunton?"

"I won't have that. I'll be damned if I'll have that."

Ronnie's answer was openly provocative; but Sir Peter apparently had recovered his temper. "We mustn't be hasty," purred Sir Peter. "We mustn't be overhasty. As Julia Cavendish's executors, we have to regard the spirit rather than the letter of her instructions. Believe me, the immediate publication of that codicil would be fatal to the plans which your dear mother obviously had in mind. Fatal!"

And the baronet, lighting himself a cigarette, relapsed into thought. Privately he considered that his old friend must have been mentally deranged some time before her death. Yet he dared not say so to her son; and, moreover, to prove mental derangement would entail more publicity than to prove the will itself.

Various plans for the avoidance of publicity began to pass through Sir Peter's mind. Brunton, faced with the alternative of the book's being published, might consent to file his petition for divorce. Then, Julia's main object accomplished, the book might be--accidentally destroyed. Other methods, too--gentler methods--might be adopted with the book. But what in Hades was one to do about the will? Unfortunately, tampering with wills constituted a felony. Therefore, unless some one ("And whom could I get to do it!" mused Sir Peter) risked going to jail, that will, that deadly, damning, white-faced, blue-written testament on the desk would have to be filed in toto at Somerset House. Filed, every pressman in England would seize upon it for a column.

A knock, followed by a voice asking, "May I come in, Ronnie?" brought the three men to their feet; and, before any of them could answer, the door opened, revealing "the lady in the case."

Aliette, her face pale above the high black mourning frock, stood irresolute in the doorway.

"I'm so sorry if I'm interrupting," she said. "I thought you'd gone, Sir Peter. I'll go away if you're talking business."

"We are talking business, dear lady," purred the baronet, playing with his acquired paper-knife. "Business which affects you more than anybody." And he looked at Ronnie as though to say, "Surely you'll consent to my consulting the person most concerned."

Ronnie signaled acquiescence; Jimmy closed the door; Aliette sat down; and Sir Peter began to speak.

At first Aliette could not grasp what the baronet was talking about. For three days now, her mind, still numb from the shock of Julia's sudden passing, had been obsessed by its own problems. Ronnie, she knew, was keeping some secret from her--as she from him. His secret, she guessed vaguely, must be in connection with his mother's book. Hers----

Gradually Sir Peter's words became comprehensible. He was reading Julia Cavendish's will. In so far as Aliette could understand the peculiar legal phraseology, Julia Cavendish had left everything to Ronnie. It struck her as curious that Sir Peter should go to all that trouble. Curious, too, that both Ronnie and his friend should look so worried! Ronnie would be even more worried if he knew that----

"That is the will," Sir Peter's voice interrupted the disturbing thought, "as my firm drafted it some years ago. But that will has been altered. Perhaps, before I read the alteration, I'd better explain to you about the book."

Now Aliette grew conscious of a question in her lover's eyes. The eyes never left her face. James Wilberforce, too, was eying her in a way that she could not understand. And suddenly Ronnie laid a hand upon her shoulder.

Sir Peter went on; "As you probably know, Mrs. Cavendish finished a novel just before she died. I have not yet read the manuscript of that novel, but it appears, from what my son and your--er--husband, who have read it, tell me, that the book is a roman À clef. A roman À clef, as I need hardly explain to you, dealing, as it does, with living people, sometimes results in a libel action. It is, among other things, to provide against the possibility of such a libel action that Mrs. Cavendish, without my firm's knowledge, altered her will."

"A libel action, Sir Peter?" Aliette's question was automatic.

"Yes. A libel action." The baronet picked his every word with care. "A libel action which might be brought against Mrs. Cavendish's estate and against the publishers of her book by your--er--former husband."

"Brought by Hector!" The exclamation, low and immediately suppressed, barely escaped Aliette's lips. But her shoulder trembled under Ronnie's hand; for now, in one inspired moment, she had grasped the secret of the book. Memory, casting back, recalled and understood every personal question put to her by the dead.

Sir Peter had stopped speaking. His eyes under the gold-rimmed glasses were perturbed, yet kindly. Obviously he found the situation difficult. She waited for Ronnie or James to intervene; but they, too, remained dumb.

And, "Do I understand," asked Aliette, summoning up all her courage, "that this novel is a personal story--the story of my"--her whole body quivered--"matrimonial difficulties?"

Ronnie removed his hand from her shoulder. James nodded assent. Admiration and gratitude mingled in Sir Peter's: "You've defined the matter exactly. One of the questions on which I should like your views is," the careful words paused, "whether or no this book should be published."

Fleetingly, Aliette thought, "Shall I tell them ... about myself? Does it make any difference?" Her intuition, suddenly active, remembered two hints dropped--purposefully perhaps--by Ronnie's mother. "Public judgment is usually inaccurate because the public is not told the whole truth"; "My dear, if only the whole world realized, as I realize, your story, they would not misjudge you."

"My views----" she parried aloud, playing for time.

"Publicity," she thought. "The flaunting policy once more. Dear God, that too." And, revisualizing the ordeal at Patrick O'Riordan's first night, her nerve frayed. Why couldn't these three men leave her in peace--in peace? Looking at Ronnie, she saw his eyes very resolute. He said:

"My decision is that the book must be published."

"Please let me finish, Cavendish," broke in Sir Peter; and to Aliette: "There are other points besides the publication of this book to be decided." Then he read to her, always in the same soft purr, the codicil; and explained, in tense, reasoned sentences, the consequences of its publication in the press, ending: "It means, to use a rather old-fashioned phrase, social ruin."

For a long while Aliette sat silent, her eyes wide, her pale hands clutching the black folds of her dress. Womanlike, she tried to put herself into the mind of the dead. Why had Julia Cavendish done this thing? Why? Could Julia have guessed that---- Womanlike, Aliette looked into the future, and her cheeks grew hot.

Ronnie said: "He can't bring an action for libel without bringing one for divorce"; Sir Peter, "Let's stick to our point; the publication of this codicil means disaster--for all three of you." "It means Aliette's freedom," retorted Ronnie.

The words of the codicil stood out in fire on the screen of Aliette's mind. She saw those words published, saw the book published, saw scandal follow scandal. Sir Peter was right. This thing meant ruin, social ruin for herself, for Ronnie, for Hector. And yet, and yet--it meant freedom. But would freedom come in time?

She glanced at the three men: at Ronnie and James, on their feet, motionless; at Sir Peter, seated at the desk, his hand fidgeting the ivory paper-knife. Swiftly, as a shuttle through the warp, her mind threaded the skeins of the future. The future would hold more than Ronnie.

"Before you take any decision," Jimmy spoke, "read this." He laid a letter before her. She read the letter through twice, her mind fighting for self-control, before asking:

"And is there no other method by which Mrs. Cavendish's 'main object' can be achieved, Sir Peter?"

Sir Peter's hand ceased fidgeting at the knife. "There may be a way," he said doubtfully. "But whether we can take it or not depends on your--er--former husband."

Blazing, Ronnie intervened. "Once and for all, I'll have no favors from that--that blackguard. He's made his own bed. Let him lie in it. Who the devil cares about scandal nowadays? I don't. And if Brunton does, so much the worse for him."

But the baronet's next remark shattered heroics. "I think," said the baronet sarcastically, "that as my co-executor is getting so very excited, we had better adjourn our conference. Perhaps you'll let me know what you both decide."