"Then I suppose you had better ask him to come in," Rathbone conceded, more from his regard for Simms than conviction that the young man's difficulty was one he could solve.

"Thank you, sir." Simms bowed very slightly and withdrew.

The moment after, the door swung wide again and the young man stood in the entrance. He was, as Simms had said, deeply troubled. He was not tall-perhaps an inch less than Rathbone himself-although his slender build and the squareness of his shoulders gave him an extra appearance of height. He had very fair skin and fine, regular features. Strength was given to his face by the width of his jaw and the level, unflinching gaze with which he met Rathbone's eyes. It was difficult to place his age, as it can be with those of a very fair complexion, but he could not have been far on either side of thirty.

Rathbone rose to his feet.

"Good afternoon, sir. Come in, and tell me in what way I may be of service to you."

"Good afternoon, Sir Oliver." The young man closed the door behind him and advanced towards the chair in front of Rathbone's desk. He was breathing very steadily, as if it were a deliberate effort, and when he was closer it was possible to see that his shoulders were tense, his body almost rigid.

"My name is Killian Melville," he began slowly, watching Rathbone's face. "I am an architect." He said it with great meaning; his light voice almost caressed the word. He hesitated, still staring at Rathbone. "I am afraid that I am about to be sued for breach of promise."

"Promise to do what?" Rathbone asked, although he was all but certain he knew. That particular phrase held one meaning above all others.

Melville swallowed. "To marry Miss Zillah Lambert, the daughter of my patron, Mr. Barton Lambert." He obviously found difficulty even in saying the words. There was a kind of despair in his face.