"But what will happen if you tell Julia?" Hester asked anxiously. "Will she believe you? She will be placed in an impossible situation between her husband and her sister."

"And there is worse," Monk went on. "They are both financially dependent upon Audley."

"He can't throw his wife out." Hester sat upright, her face hot with anger. "And surely she would not be so- oh, of course. You mean she may choose to leave. Oh dear." She bit her lip. "And even if his crime could be proved, which it almost certainly could not, and he were convicted, then there is not money for anyone and they would both be in the street. What a ridiculous situation." Her fists clenched in her lap and her voice was husky with fury and frustration.

Suddenly she rose to her feet. "If only women could earn a living as men can. If women could be doctors or architects and lawyers too." She paced to the window and turned. "Or even clerks and shopkeepers. Anything more than domestic servants, seamstresses, or whores! But what woman earns enough to live in anything better than one room in a lodging house if she's lucky, and in a tenement if she's not? And always hungry and always cold, and never sure next week will not be even worse."

"You are dreaming," Monk said, but not critically. He understood her feeling and the facts that, inspired it. "And even if it happens one day, which is unlikely because it is against the natural social order, it won't help Julia Penrose or her sister. Anything I tell her-or don't-will cause terrible harm."

They all remained in silence for several minutes, each wrestling with the problem in his or her own way, Hester by the window, Callandra leaning back in her chair, Monk on the edge of his. Finally it was Callandra who spoke.

"I think you should tell Julia," she said very quietly, her voice low and unhappy. "It is not a good solution, but I believe it is better than not telling her. If you do, then at least the decision what to do is hers, not yours. And as you say, she may well press the matter until she learns something, whatever you do. And please God that is the right decision. We can only hope."

Monk looked at Hester.

"I agree," she answered. "No solution is satisfactory, and you will ruin her peace whatever you say, but I think perhaps that is ruined anyway. If he continues, and Marianne is either seriously hurt or with child, it will be worse. And then Julia would blame herself-and you."

"What about my promise to Marianne?" he asked.

Her eyes were filled with unhappiness.

"Do you suppose she knows what dangers there are ahead? She is young, unmarried. She may not even be aware of what they are. Many girls have no idea of childbirth, or even what brings it about; they only discover in the marriage bed."

"I don't know." It was not enough of an answer. "I gave her my word."

'Than you will have to tell her that you cannot keep it," Callandra replied. "Which will be very hard. But what is your alternative?"

'To keep it."

"Will that not be even harder-if not at first, then later?”

He knew that was true. He would not be able to turn his back on the affair and forget it. Every tragic possibility would haunt his imagination, and he would have to accept at least part of the responsibility for all of them.

"Yes," he admitted. "Yes-I shall have to go back and tell Marianne."

"I'm sorry." Hester touched his arm briefly, then withdrew.

They did not discuss it further. There was nothing more to say, and they could not help him. Instead they spoke of things that had nothing to do with the work of any of them, of the latest novels to be published and what they had heard said of them, of politics, of affairs in India and the fearful news of the mutiny, and the war in China. When they parted late into the summer night and Monk and Hester shared a hansom back to their respective lodgings, even that was done in companionable conversation.

Naturally they stopped at Hester's rooms first, the very sparsest of places because so frequently she was living in the house of her current patient. She was the only resident in her rooms at the moment because her patient was so nearly recovered she required attention only every other day, and did not see why she should house and feed a nurse from whom she now had so little service.

Monk alighted and opened the door for her, handing her down to the pavement. It came to his lips to say how pleasant it had been to see her, then he swallowed the words. There was no need of them. Small compliments, however true, belonged to a more trivial relationship, one that sailed on the surface of things.

"Good night," he said simply, walking across the stones with her to the front door.

"Good night, Monk," she answered with a smile. "I shall think of you tomorrow."

He smiled back, ruefully, knowing she meant it and feeling a kind of comfort in the thought that he would not be alone.

Behind him in the street the horse stamped and shifted position. There was nothing else to say. Hester let herself in with her key, and Monk returned to the hansom and climbed up as it moved off along the lamplit street.

He was at Hastings Street at quarter to ten in the morning. It was mild and raining very slightly. The flowers in the gardens were beaded with moisture and somewhere a bird was singing with startling clarity.

Monk would have given a great deal to have been able to turn and go back again to the Euston Road and not call at number fourteen. However, he did not hesitate on the step or wait before pulling the bell. He had already done all the thinking he could. There was no more debate left, no more arguments to put for either action.

The maid welcomed him in with some familiarity now, but she was slightly taken aback when he asked to see not Mrs. Penrose but Miss Gillespie. Presumably Julia had said she was expecting him.

He was alone in the morning room, pacing in restless anxiety, when Marianne came in. As soon as she saw him her face paled.

"What is it?" she asked quickly. "Has something happened?"

"Before I left here yesterday," he replied, "I spoke to your sister and told her that I would not be able to learn who assaulted you, and it would be pointless to continue seeking. She would not accept that. If I do not tell her then she will employ someone else who will."

"But how could anyone else know?" she said desperately. "I wouldn't tell them. No one saw, no one heard."

"They will deduce it from the evidence, as I did." This was every bit as hard as his worst fears. She looked so crushed. "Miss Gillespie-I am sorry, but I am going to have to take back the pledge I gave you and tell Mrs. Penrose the truth."

"You can't!" She was aghast. "You promised you would not do that!" But even as she spoke the innocent indignation was dying in her face and being replaced by understanding-and defeat.

He felt wretched. He had no alternative, and yet he was betraying her and he could not argue himself out of it.

"There are other things that have to be considered also…"

"Of course there are." Her voice was harsh with anger and misery. "The worst of this is how Julia will feel about it. She will be destroyed. How can she ever feel the same about me, even if she truly believes it was the farthest thing from my wishes? I did nothing whatsoever to lead him to think I would ever be willing, and that is true, Mr. Monk! I swear it by all I hold dear-"

"I know that," he said, interrupting her. "That is not what I mean."

"Then what?" she demanded abruptly. "What else could be of importance beside that?'

"Why do you believe that it will never happen again?"

Her face was white. She swallowed with difficulty. She started to speak, and then stopped.