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flash of intelligence, and something that could almost have been mistaken for humor, were the situation not so desperate.
    “‘Course they will,” Phillips agreed with the faintest smile. “Feeling's where we get ‘em, ‘cause yer see Mr. Durban weren't anything like the good man they think ‘e were. ‘E ‘ated me for a long time, an’ ‘e made it ‘is life's work ter see me ‘ang, whether I done anything for it or not. An’ Mr. Monk took over from ‘im just like ‘e stepped into a dead man's shoes, an’ ‘is coat and trousers as well. Careless, they were, both of ‘em. An’ from wot Mr. Ballinger says, yer clever enough an’ straight enough ter show it, if it's true, whether they were yer friends or not.”
    Rathbone became uncomfortably aware that just as he was studying Phillips, so Phillips in turn was studying him equally as closely, and probably with just as acute a judgment. He did everything he could to keep all expression from his face.
    “I see. I shall look at the evidence in that light, not only for its validity, but as to how it was obtained. If there were errors it may work to our advantage.”
    Phillips shivered involuntarily, struggled to conceal it, and failed.
    The room was chilly because the damp never seemed to entirely leave it, in spite of the August heat outside.
    “Are you cold, Mr. Phillips?” Rathbone forced himself to remember that this man was his client, and innocent of the crime he was charged with until such time as he was proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
    Something flared in Phillips's eyes: memory, fear. “No,” he lied. Then he changed his mind. “It's just this room.” His voice changed and became hoarser. “It's wet. In my cell I can hear… dripping.” His body went rigid. “I hate dripping.”
    And yet the man chose to live on the river. He must never be away from the slap of the waves and the shifting of the tide. It was only in here, where the walls sweated and dripped, that he could not control his hatred of it. Rathbone found himself looking at Phillips with a new interest, something almost like respect. Was it possible that he deliberately forced himself to face his phobia, live with it, test himself against it every day? That would be a strength few men possessed, and a discipline most would very definitely avoid. Perhaps he had assumed a great deal about Jericho Phillips that he should not have.
    “I will look into your accommodation closely,” he promised. “Now let us put our attention to what we have so far.”
     
    Two weeks later, when the morning of the trial came, Rathbone was as ready as it was possible to be. The excitement of the eve of battle fluttered inside him, tightening his muscles, making his stomach knot, burning within him like a fire. He was afraid of failure, full of doubts as to whether the wild plan he had in mind could work-and even in darker moments, whether it ought to. And yet the hunger to try was compulsive, consuming. It would be a landmark in history if he succeeded in gaining an acquittal for a man like Phillips, because the procedure was flawed, well-motivated but essentially dishonest, drawn by emotion, not fact. That path, no matter how understandable in the individual instance, would in the end only lead to injustice, and therefore sooner or later to the hanging of an innocent man, which was the ultimate failure of the law.
    He looked at himself in the mirror and saw his reflection with its long nose, sensitive mouth, and, as always, humor in the dark eyes. He stepped back and adjusted his wig and gown until they were perfect. There were approximately fifteen minutes to go.
    He still wished that he knew who was paying his very considerable fee, but Ballinger had steadily refused to tell him. It was quite true that Rathbone did not need to know. Ballinger's assurance that the man was reputable, and that the money was obtained honestly, was sufficient to put all suspicion to rest. It was curiosity that drove