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ought to give up the Bar? He was merely putting into words what I have so often felt myself. From now on, I shall concentrate exclusively upon the work where I am convinced that my real talents lie. I shall write thrillers, and I shall do nothing but write thrillers, and if they come to me and plead with me to appear in the latest cause célèbre, I shall reply that I am sorry, but I cannot fit it in. You merely court disaster in these days of specialisation, if you dissipate your energies.  Oh, yes, Ma, I am quite clear that all this has been the best thing that could possibly have happened. But if you ask me if I am looking forward to the prospect of explaining that to Miss Shoesmith, I answer frankly ... Oh, my God!" said Jeff, a powerful shudder passing through his well-knit frame. " Here she is!"
    He squared his shoulders manfully, endeavouring to overcome a sinking sensation in the pit of the stomach. Watching Myrtle Shoesmith, as she crossed the court, it would have been impossible for the dullest and least observant eye not to have seen that her walk was the walk of an overwrought soul. Mrs. Cork, had she been present, would have noted instantly the resemblance to a leopard on the prowl. She disappeared into the doorway of Halsey Chambers, and Jeff, after a momentary hesitation, went out on to the landing to meet her, bracing himself for what was plainly going to be a sticky tete -a -tete.
    For it had been evident to him, gazing down into the court, and it was more evident to him now than ever, as he peered over the banisters, that his betrothed was in no sunny and companionable mood. He had never really entertained the notion that they were going to have a good laugh together over the case of Penncfather v. Tarvin, but, if he had, it would have vanished when she arrived at the eminence where he stood. Reaching the landing, she halted, and regarded him for a moment in silence, panting a little, as if she had been some Empress of Emotion on the silver screen.
    When she spoke, it was in a low thrilling voice, almost inaudible but packed with a wealth of pent-up feeling. It reminded Jeff of the voice of a Welsh forward, on whose head he had sat one muddy afternoon at Cardiff Arms Park.
    "Are you mad, Geoffrey?"
    The question was one to which a direct answer was difficult. Jeff decided to strike the soothing note.
    "I think I know what you mean," he said. "You're referring to the Case, aren't you? I thought you might want to hear all about that. Come along in, and we'll have a long talk about it over a cup of tea."
    "I don't want any tea."
    "There are rock cakes."
    "When I read that report in the Daily Express, I nearly fainted. I couldn't believe my eyes. You must have been insane."
    "Well, I admit that I was just the slightest bit carried away and to a certain extent lost my calm judgment. As I was telling Ma Balsam, this man Green turned out to be a fellow who had embittered my youth with foul calumnies. When I recognized him, I saw red. Green, too, of course."
    "I don't know what you are talking about."
    "I'm trying to explain why I wasn't suave and dignified, as I had intended to be. When this excrescence slunk into the witness box, and I realized that he was Stinker Green---"
    "After all the trouble I took to get Father to give you the brief."
    "I know, I know. Oh, don't think I don't see your point of view. All I'm trying to make you understand is that this boll-weevil Green---"
    "He's furious. He keeps saying 'I told you so.' He pleaded with me to break our engagement."
    Jeff quivered from stem to stern. He had not expected this. A thorough cursing, yes. A proper ticking-off, quite. But not a complete remission of sentence. There came into his eyes a sudden wild gleam of hope, such as might have come into the eyes of some wretched man on a scaffold, who, just as the executioner is spitting on his hands with a cheery "Heave ho!" observes a messenger galloping up on a foaming horse, waving a parchment.
    "You