3
"It was very kind of you to make an appointment so quickly, Sir Peter."
"Not at all, dear lady, not at all."
Inspecting his client benignantly across the leather-topped desk by the big window of his Norfolk Street office, Sir Peter Wilberforce could see that Aliette's mental tether was stretched to its tautest. In the low light of a waning autumn sun, the face under the black Russian hat showed pale as thinnest ivory. The vivid eyes were pools of fear. Lines of indecision penciled the temples. But the little black-gloved hand she gave him had not trembled; nor had there been any fear, any indecision in the shy, ladylike voice. And the baronet had thought, "Now, I wonder, I wonder if she'd have the nerve."
His eyes ceased their benignant inspection, and wandered--apparently aimless--from the sunlight outside to the closed door, round the pictureless walls, till finally they rested among the racks of black deed-boxes. There were many titled names gold-lettered on those japanned deed-boxes; but the two names which interested Sir Peter's eye bore no titles. "And how is my co-executor," prompted his voice; "still heroic?"
"Worse than that." Aliette managed a smile.
"And you?"
"I'm afraid I'm not a bit heroic. Sir Peter, tell me; were you serious when you said that the proving of this will, the publication of this book, would mean--social ruin for--all three of us?"
"Perfectly serious, dear lady."
"And is there"--her heart sank----"no other method by which we--Ronnie--can carry out his mother's wishes?"