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"I am, indeed. She deserves to know that the wheels of justice do, indeed, grind exceedingly fine - and she's been a worthy instrument, if what she did helped Melville find the courage to face the consequences of his actions. There may be hope for both of them now."

Claire's reaction to the news did credit to her newfound freedom of spirit. After weeping briefly in Adam's arms out of sheer relief, she pulled herself together and, wiping away her tears, bravely raised her face to his.

"Dr. Sinclair, I feel as if you've lifted an enormous weight from my shoulders," she said, squaring those shoulders and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

He smiled and pulled a chair closer, to sit knee to knee before her wheelchair.

"I think it's you who've done the lifting," he said gently. "How do you feel about what's happened?"

"Only relieved - and thankful," she replied. "I thought I'd feel elated, but it isn't that. I feel - sorry for him - even after all the pain he's caused me."

She glanced down at her hands, clasped in her lap and toying with her tissue.

"It was so easy to hate this man when I hadn't seen his face," she went on more slowly. "But once I saw him clearly, it was obvious that he wasn't the monster I'd envisioned - just someone who'd let his own weaknesses betray him once too often. Maybe that's always the thing about hatred - that it's blind. And being blind, it feeds on illusions. Give me the truth any day, and let me see things for what they are."

"That's an important insight," Adam said. "Tell me this, then: On Wednesday, I asked you to consider what you might want to say to this man, if the law should ever find him out. Now that he's turned himself in of his own accord, I'd like to ask you that question again."

A sad, wistful smile touched Claire's lips. "To be truthful, I don't really know. Somehow it doesn't seem as important anymore. What I maybe ought to say is something along the lines of, 'I realize you didn't mean to hurt my husband and me. I can't ever forget the husband and the child that I lost, but if I didn't at least try to forgive you, I would lose myself as well.' "

Her words echoed those spoken to him by Annet Maxwell in the churchyard of Hawick: Surely we were better advised, for the good of our own souls, tae forgive rather than tae demand retribution. It was conclusive proof, if he needed it, that Claire Crawford had successfully reintegrated her past lives with her present. Smiling, he reached over and patted her hand.

"I hope you realize how far you've come," he said quietly. "We'll talk more about this when I get back. Meanwhile, I've arranged for a professional colleague of mine to look in on you while I'm gone - a clergyman, actually." He took out a business card and jotted Christopher's name and telephone number on the back. "He's an Episcopal priest; has a parish out in Kinross, but he does a bit of counselling as well. I think you'll like him. And when I get back, we'll talk about when you think you might be ready to go home."

Claire looked slightly startled. "You mean, I can decide?"

"We'll give it a few days, but yes, I think so. My major caution would be to deal gently with yourself in these next few days, after the euphoria wears off, and don't try to do too much too soon."

A shy but pleased smile lit Claire's face, giving Adam a glimpse of the pretty woman she had been before her accident.

"Can I call Ishbel and tell her the news?" she asked.

"Of course you can. I'm sure she'll be as pleased as you are."

Still smiling, she hugged her arms to her shoulders in wonderment. "Dr. Sinclair, I don't know how to thank you. I wish - I wish you didn't have to go away right now. But since you do, I hope everything goes well for you."

So do I, Adam thought as he bade his patient farewell and rose to depart, for resolution of the Irish affair was apt to be of a totally different level of magnitude than what he had managed to accomplish with Claire.

"This thing you bought in Glasgow," said Peregrine to his wife as they headed toward Edinburgh Airport a few hours later. "Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

Julia Lovat clucked her tongue in mild derision. "Of course it's bigger than a breadbox. If it were smaller than a breadbox, I wouldn't have had to make arrangements for having it delivered."

"Just checking," said her husband. "Is it bigger than a fridge-freezer?''

Julia considered. "Equal volume, different proportions. And please look out for that farm machine."

The machine in question was a heavy-duty tractor towing a seed-drill behind it, just coming out of the Gogar Roundabout ahead of them. It was rumbling along at a snail's pace, its bulky wheels overlapping the broken yellow line at the center of the westbound carriageway.

"He's got a perfectly good lane of his own," Peregrine complained loftily. "I don't see why he should want half of mine as well. And what's a combo like that doing out on the city bypass, anyway?"

"Bypassing the city, I would imagine," Julia said drily. "Even farmers occasionally have to get from A to B." Pausing to whip a glance over her shoulder, she added, "Here's your chance to overtake, if you want to."

"Just watch me," said Peregrine. "This is what Morris Minors were made for."

The Morris Minor in question was the Lovats' workhorse vehicle, a miniature estate wagon with wood-panelled sides and enough space in the rear to lay paintings flat and accommodate Peregrine's artist's paraphernalia. Today it held only an olive-green canvas carryall, his sketchbox, and a green waxed jacket. When Peregrine applied pressure to the accelerator, the little car leapt forward, bypassing the tractor with a clear yard to spare. A sign pointing the way to the Turn-house Airport Exit loomed ahead.

"And about time!" Peregrine declared.

He decelerated into the exit lane just as a British Midlands jet roared in low overhead on its way to land. Julia glanced at her watch.

"It's only half past two," she announced. "You've still got a bit of time to spare, if you want to keep guessing."

Peregrine had been relying on the game to provide a distraction from darker, more unsettling thoughts about his impending trip. Concerning its object, he had told Julia as much of the truth as he dared - that it had to do with the body they had found, now known to be that of an Irish Fisheries officer named Michael Scanlan. It was police business, and Peregrine had been asked to assist McLeod and Adam. He had mentioned the Kriegsmarine flag found on Scanlan's body, and that they hoped to find the German U-boat from which it came, but of the Black Terma he had said nothing. There seemed to him no point in acquainting his wife with the more ominous aspects of their quest, when there was nothing she could hope to do to offset the danger.

"Well?" Julia asked, on a patient note of challenge. "Don't you have any more questions to ask me about our mystery acquisition?"

Peregrine sighed. "Wouldn't you rather just put me out of my misery and tell me what it is?'' "Where's the fun in that?" Julia demanded. "No, if you're determined to be lazy, you'll just have to wait until you get back. You are planning to come back, aren't you?"

The sudden shift in his wife's tone of voice caught Peregrine off guard. "What kind of a question is that?"

"A serious one," Julia replied. "Is there anyone out there who might object to your going in search of a Nazi ghost-sub?"

The question left Peregrine feeling more than a little disconcerted.

"Nobody I could put a name to," he said guardedly. "But you needn't worry; Adam will see to it that I stay out of trouble. If you don't believe me, just look at Noel. He's been Adam's Second for years, and he's never come to any serious harm."