supreme culmination of love. And after all, hatred's more powerful thanlove.""More interesting?" she asked, regarding him quizzically.Without answering, he resumed pacing the floor. "Of course," heobserved, in the mechanical monotone of one thinking aloud, "the thing todo is to prevent the murder, if that's what's in the wind, but my legaltraining can't help appreciating what a wonderful case it would be if asleepwalker actually killed a man, knowing nothing about it. There'd be nomalice, no premeditation.""But," Jackson pointed out, "you'd have to convince a jury that yourclient wasn't putting on an act.""Couldn't the niece do that?" Mason inquired, pausing to plant his feetfar apart and stare belligerently at his clerk. "Can't she testify heruncle walked in his sleep, picked up a carving knife and took it to bedwith him?""That's what she could testify," the clerk said."Well, what more do you want?""Her testimony might not convince a jury.""Why not? What's wrong with her?""She's peculiar.""Pretty?""Yes, she has a stunning figure. Believe me, she dresses to show it.""How old?""Not over twenty-three or twenty-four.""Spoiled?""I'd say so."Mason flung out his hand in a dramatic gesture. "If a pretty, twenty-three-year-old girl with a swell figure can't cross her knees in thewitness box and convince a jury her uncle's a sleepwalker, I'll quit trialwork." Mason shrugged his shoulders as though dismissing the subject,turned to Della Street and said, "What else is in the office, Della?""A Mr. Johnson wanted you to handle the Fletcher murder case."