It was only four thirty. Time for a full three hours' work on the opinion he was preparing for Hargraves & Hargraves. Not that there was any urgency. He could go home now. But the house would be empty, apart from the servants, tucked away in their quarters. Penelope would certainly be out. What would he do? Read a law book? He sometimes envied those men who had some all-consuming interest or hobby - gardening or golf or, like his distant relative, Lord Burford, gun-collecting. But he had never left time for things like that. And now he was surely not far away from achieving his life-long ambition: elevation to the Bench, leading, in all probability one day, to the position of Lord Chief Justice, and the opportunity not merely to practise law but actually to influence it, to change it. He knew that that was what his fellow lawyers expected. Even if none of them liked him very much, they all held him in the highest respect. And what was more important than respect?

Arriving back at his chambers, he sent his clerk home, poured himself a small glass of very dry sherry and sat down at his desk. He took out the case containing his pince-nez, thoroughly polished them with a clean linen handkerchief and put them on. He refolded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket, then opened his brief case, took out the papers - and saw It. His stomach gave a lurch. For a while he had managed to forget about It - this thing that clouded all his horizons, that threatened to shatter all his hopes for the future.

The Photograph.

Against his better judgement, he had to obey the impulse to look at it again. It was like the urge constantly to exert pressure on a painful tooth, just to see if it still hurt. His eyes gave the slightest flicker and his lips tightened momentarily - the closest he would ever come to wincing - and he hurriedly put it back in his case. He could not leave it in the office safe, as his clerk knew the combination, while Penelope knew that of the one at home. So he had been carrying it round with him. He ought really to deposit it at his bank. But then he would not be able to indulge the lacerating, but to him very necessary, urge constantly to stare at it, searching for some minute indication as to where or who . . . He knew when, but there was no clue, obviously, as to why. Was it a prelude to blackmail? If so, why was the demand delayed? Or was some enemy, someone he had destroyed in court, just playing with him, waiting to release it to the gutter press the moment his advancement was announced? The first he could put up with. And he would pay, unquestionably - provided he could think of some method to be sure he got the negative and all prints back; easier said than done, but it ought not to be beyond his wit. He just wished the demand would come tomorrow, so he knew where he was. But it was entirely out of his hands. And thinking about it at this time would serve absolutely no purpose.

With the strength of will and concentration that made him such a formidable lawyer, he thrust all thought of it from his mind, got out the Hargraves papers and commenced writing in a quick, neat hand.