The baronet smiled confidentially in reply. "You see, the main point, as I view it, is whether we have any means at our disposal by which we can induce your--er--former husband to bring an action for divorce. My co-executor, I gathered, was--shall we say--a trifle biased on the subject. Now, in the first place, it appears to me that if your--er--former husband knew about this codicil, he would do--er--almost anything to avoid its publication. If, therefore, he were told that by bringing his action immediately----"
"That"--Aliette leaned forward in her chair--"that wouldn't be fair."
"My dear lady," Sir Peter's paper-knife emphasized his disapproval of the interruption, "this is a solicitor's office, not a court of morals."
"But"--a diffident tremor twitched the pallid features--"it would be blackmail."
"Let us call it justifiable blackmail, performed with kid gloves for the victim's benefit. The victim himself, remember, has hardly behaved chivalrously."
"That's no reason why we should behave"--the pallid features flamed--"caddishly."
A little taken aback--female clients with moral scruples being somewhat rare at Norfolk Street--the baronet changed his tactics.
"If I follow you," he said quietly, "your objection is not so much to the partial solution of our problem as to the method of attaining it. Very well. Let us presume--mind you, it's only the merest presumption--that the divorce question is arranged without even justifiable--er--blackmail, and that the codicil to Mrs. Cavendish's will had--shall we say?--never been penned. That would still leave us faced with the question of the novel. My co-executor, I gather, still insists on its being published? He wouldn't approve, for instance, if I advised its total destruction?"
"Neither of us could bear that." Aliette's voice was unflinching. "Ronnie's mother sacrificed six months of her life to finish that book. To destroy it would be worse than blackmail, it would be----"
"Murder. Quite so." Once more, the purposeful eyes wandered from their client's face to the deed-boxes against the wall. "Mrs. Julia Cavendish," read the eyes among the deed-boxes; and, thereunder, "Mr. Paul Flower." "Of course the novel must be published. But need it be published exactly in its present form? Now presuming--recollect this is still only the merest presumption--that the--er--divorce were arranged, and the--er--codicil off our minds, don't you think we might--shall we say, alter the novel?"