The Prime Minister's flight had landed at Ottawa airport a few minutes before 1.30 in the afternoon. Eastern Standard Time. In Vancouver at the same moment – four provinces and three time zones to the west – it was still morning and nearing 10.30 AM, at which hour the order nisi affecting the future and freedom of Henri Duval was due to be heard in judge's chambers.

'Why judge's chambers?' Dan Orliffe asked Alan Maitland, whom he had intercepted in the bustling upper floor corridor of the BC Supreme Court Building. 'Why not in a courtroom?' Alan had come in a moment earlier from outside where, overnight, a bitter blustering wind had set the city shivering. Now, in the warm building, a press of human traffic swirled around them: hurrying lawyers, gowns billowing; others with litigants in last-minute conclaves; court officials; news reporters – more of the latter than usual today because-of interest the Duval case had aroused.

'The hearing will be in a courtroom,' Alan said hurriedly. 'Look, I can't stop; we'll be heard in a few minutes.' He was uncomfortably aware of Dan Orliffe's poised pencil and open notebook. He had faced so many in the past few days: ever since Orliffe's original news story; then yesterday again, after the news had broken of his application for a habaeas corpus writ. There had been a spate of interviews and questions: Did he really have a case? What did he expect would happen? If the full writ was granted, what next?…

He had sidestepped most of the questions, excusing himself on professional grounds; and in any event, he had said, he could not discuss a case which was now sub judice. He had -been conscious too of the disfavour with which judges looked on publicity-seeking lawyers, and the press attention so far had made him acutely uncomfortable on this score. But none of this concern had stopped the headlines, yesterday and today; or the news reports on radio and television…

Then, starting yesterday afternoon, there had been the phone calls and telegrams, pouring in from across the country; from strangers – most of them people he had never heard of, though a few big names among them that he had. All had wished him well, a few had offered money, and he found himself moved that the plight of a single hapless man should, after all, cause such genuine concern.

Now, in the moment or so during which Alan had stopped to speak with Dan Orliffe, other reporters were surrounding him. One of the out-of-town men whom Alan remembered from yesterday – from the Montreal Gazette, he thought -asked, 'Yes, what's with this "chambers" business?'

Alan supposed he had better take a minute to spell things out. These were not regular court reporters, and the Press had helped him when he needed help…

'All matters, other than formal trials,' he explained quickly, 'are dealt with in judge's chambers instead of in court. But usually there are so many items to be heard, with a lot of people involved, that the judge moves into a courtroom which, for the time being, becomes his chambers.'

'Hell!' a derisive voice said from the rear. 'What's that old line about the law being an ass?'

Alan grinned. 'If I agreed with you, you might quote me.'

A small man at the front asked, 'Will Duval be here today?'

'No,' Alan answered. 'He's still on the ship. We can only get him off the ship if the order nisi is made absolute – that is, a habeas corpus writ. That's what today's hearing is about.'

Tom Lewis pushed his short chunky figure through the group. Taking Alan's arm he urged, 'Let's go, man!'

Alan glanced at his watch; it was almost 10.30. 'That's all,' he told the reporters. 'We'd all better get inside.'

'Good luck, chum!' one of the wire service men said. 'We're pulling for you.'

As the outer door swung closed behind the last to enter, the court clerk called 'Order!' At the front of the small, square courtroom, preceded by a clerk, the spare, bony figure of Mr Justice Willis entered briskly. He mounted the judge's' dais, bowed formally to counsel – the twenty or so who would appear briefly before him within the next half-hour – and, without turning, dropped smartly into the seat which the clerk had placed behind him.

Leaning towards Alan beside him, Tom Lewis whispered, 'K that guy is ever late with the chair it'll be Humpty Dumpty all over.'

For an instant the judge glanced in their direction, his sharp angular face austere beneath the bushy grey eyebrows and brooding eyes which Alan had been so aware of two days earlier. Alan wondered if he had heard, then decided it was impossible. Now with a tight, formal nod to the clerk, the judge indicated that chambers procedure could begin.

Glancing around the mahogany-panelled courtroom, Alan saw that the Press had occupied two full rows of seats, near the front, on the opposite side of the centre aisle. On his own side, behind and in front, were fellow lawyers, most clasping or reading legal documents, ready for the moment their business would be called. Then, while his head was turned towards the rear, five men came in.

The first was Captain Jaabeck in a blue serge suit with a trench coat over his arm, moving uncertainly in the unfamiliar surroundings. He was accompanied by an older, well-dressed man whom Alan recognized as a partner in a downtown legal firm specializing in marine law. Presumably this was the shipping company's lawyer. The two took seats behind the reporters, the lawyer – whom Alan had met once – looking across and nodding agreeably and Captain Jaabeck inclining his head with a slight smile.

Immediately following was a trio – Edgar Kramer, as usual neatly attired in a well-pressed pin-stripe suit with white pocket handkerchief carefully folded, a second, stockily built man with a trim, toothbrush moustache, who deferred to Kramer as they entered – probably an assistant in the Immigration Department, Alan reasoned; and, ushering the other two, a heavy-set distinguished figure who, from his air of confidence in the court, was almost certainly another lawyer.

At the front of the courtroom the day's crop of applications had begun, called one after another by the clerk. As each was named, a lawyer Would stand up, stating his business briefly. Usually there was a casual question or two from the judge, then a nod, signifying approval of the application.

Tom Lewis nudged Alan. 'Is that your friend Kramer – the one with the acid-Jar face?' Alan nodded.

Tom swivelled his head to examine the others, then a moment later turned back, his lips pursed in a silent whistle. He whispered: 'Have you seen who's with him?'

'The fashion plate in the grey suit?' Alan whispered back. 'I don't recognize him. Do you?'

Tom put a hand to his mouth, speaking behind it. 'I sure do. A. R. Butler, QC, no less. They're firing the big guns at you, boy! Feel like running?'

'Frankly,' Alan murmured, 'yes.'

A. R. Butler was a name to conjure with. One of the city's most successful trial lawyers, he had a reputation for consummate legal skill and his examinations and argument could be deadly. Normally he interested himself in major cases only. It must have taken some persuasion, Alan thought, plus a fat fee, for the Department of Immigration to have secured his services. Already, Alan noticed, there was a stirring of interest among the Press.

The clerk called: 'In the matter of Henri Duval – application for habeas corpus.'

Alan stood. He said quickly, 'My lord, may this stand until second reading?' It was a normal courtesy to other lawyers present. Those behind him on the list, and with application requiring no argument could transact it speedily and go. Afterwards the residue of names – those anticipating lengthier proceedings – would be called again.