If Stephen knew that I had told an anarchist where to find Aleks…

She had worried about it through tea. She had worried about it while the maid was putting up her hair, with the result that the job was not properly done and she looked a fright. She had worried about it through dinner, with the result that she had been less than vivacious with the Marchioness of Quort, Mr. Chamberlain and a young man called Freddie who kept hoping aloud that there was nothing seriously wrong with Charlotte.

She recalled Feliks’s cut hand, which had caused him to give such a shout when she squeezed it. She had only glimpsed the wound but it looked as if it had been bad enough to need stitches.

Nevertheless, it was not until the end of the evening, when she sat in her bedroom at home brushing her hair, that it occurred to her to connect Feliks with the madman in the park.

The thought was so frightening that she dropped a gold-backed hairbrush onto the dressing table and broke a glass vial of perfume.

What if Feliks had come to London to kill Aleks?

Suppose it was Feliks who had attacked the coach in the park, not to rob them but to get at Aleks? Had the man with the gun been Feliks’s height and build? Yes, roughly. And Stephen had wounded him with his sword…

Then Aleks had left the house because he was frightened (or perhaps, she now realized, because he knew the “robbery” had been an assassination attempt) and Feliks had not known where to find him, so he had asked Lydia…

She stared at herself in the mirror. The woman she saw there had gray eyes, fair eyebrows, blond hair, a pretty face and the brain of a sparrow.

Could it be true? Could Feliks have deceived her so? Yes-because he had spent nineteen years imagining that she had betrayed him.

She picked up the pieces of broken glass from the vial and put them in a handkerchief; then she mopped up the spilled perfume. She did not know what to do now. She had to warn Stephen, but how? “By the way, an anarchist called this morning and asked me where Aleks had gone; and because he used to be my lover I told him…” She would have to make up a story. She thought for a while. Once upon a time she had been an expert barefaced liar, but she was out of practice. Eventually she decided she could get away with a combination of the lies Feliks had told to her and to Pritchard.

She put on a cashmere robe over the silk nightgown and went through to Stephen’s bedroom.

He was sitting at the window, in pajamas and a dressing gown, with a small glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other, looking out over the moonlit park. He was surprised to see her come in, for it was always he who went to her room in the night. He stood up with a welcoming smile and embraced her. She realized that he misunderstood her visit: he thought she had come to make love.

She said: “I want to talk to you.”

He released her. He looked disappointed. “At this time of night?”

“I think I may have done something awfully silly.”

“You’d better tell me about it.”

They sat down on opposite sides of the cold fireplace. Suddenly Lydia wished she had come to make love. She said: “A man called this morning. He said he had known me in St. Petersburg. Well, the name was familiar and I thought I vaguely recalled him… You know how it is, sometimes-”

“What was his name?”

“Levin.”

“Go on.”

“He said he wanted to see Prince Orlov.”

Stephen was suddenly very attentive. “Why?”

“Something to do with a sailor who had been unjustly imprisoned. This… Levin… wanted to make a personal plea for the man’s release.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him the Savoy Hotel.”

“Damn,” Stephen cursed, then apologized: “Pardon me.”

“Afterward it occurred to me that Levin might have been up to no good. He had a cut hand-and I remembered that you had cut the madman in the park… so, you see, it dawned on me gradually… I’ve done something dreadful, haven’t I?”

“It’s not your fault. In fact it’s mine. I should have told you the truth about the man in the park, but I thought it better not to frighten you. I was wrong.”

“Poor Aleks,” Lydia said. “To think that someone would want to kill him. He’s so sweet.”

“What was Levin like?”

The question unsettled Lydia. For a moment she had been thinking of “Levin” as an unknown assassin; now she was forced to describe Feliks. “Oh… tall, thin, with dark hair, about my age, obviously Russian, a nice face, rather lined…” She tailed off. And I yearn for him.

Stephen stood up. “I’ll go and rouse Pritchard. He can drive me to the hotel.”

Lydia wanted to say: No, don’t. Take me to bed instead; I need your warmth and tenderness. She said: “I’m so sorry.”

“It may be for the best,” Stephen said.

She looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

“Because, when he comes to the Savoy Hotel to assassinate Aleks, I shall catch him.”

And then Lydia knew that before this was over one of the two men she loved would surely kill the other.

Feliks gently lifted the bottle of nitroglycerine out of the sink. He crossed the room as if he were walking on eggshells. His pillow was on the mattress. He had enlarged the rip until it was about six inches long, and now he put the bottle through the hole and into the pillow. He arranged the stuffing all around the bottle so that the bomb lay cocooned in shock-absorbing material. He picked up the pillow and, cradling it like a baby, placed it in his open suitcase. He closed the case and breathed more easily.

He put on his coat, his scarf and his respectable hat. Carefully, he turned the cardboard suitcase on to its edge, then picked it up.

He went out.

The journey into the West End was a nightmare.

Of course he could not use the bicycle, but even walking was nerve-racking. Every second he visualized that brown glass bottle in its pillow; every time his foot hit the pavement he imagined the little shock wave which must travel up his body and down his arm to the case; in his mind he saw the molecules of nitroglycerine vibrating faster and faster under his hand.

He passed a woman washing the pavement in front of her house. He went by on the road, in case he should slip on the wet flagstones, and she jeered: “A-scared of getting yer feet wet, toff?”

Outside a factory in Euston a crowd of apprentices poured through the gates chasing a football. Feliks stood stock-still as they rushed all around him, jostling and fighting for the ball. Then someone kicked it clear and they were gone as quickly as they had arrived.

Crossing the Euston Road was a dance with death. He stood at the curb for five minutes, waiting for a good-sized gap in the stream of traffic; and then he had to walk across so fast he was almost running.

In Tottenham Court Road he went into a high-class stationer’s. It was calm and hushed in the shop. He set the suitcase down gently on the counter. An assistant in a morning coat said: “Can I help you, sir?”

“I need an envelope, please.”

The assistant raised his eyebrows. “Just the one, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Any particular kind, sir?”

“Just plain, but good quality.”

“We have blue, ivory, eau-de-nil, cream, beige-”

“White.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And a sheet of paper.”

“One sheet of paper, sir.”

They charged him threepence. On principle he would have preferred to run off without paying, but he could not run with the bomb in his case.

Charing Cross Road teemed with people on their way to work in shops and offices. It was impossible to walk at all without getting buffeted. Feliks stood in a doorway for a while, wondering what to do. Finally he decided to carry the case in his arms to protect it from the scurrying hordes.

In Leicester Square he took refuge in a bank. He sat at one of the writing tables where the customers made out their checks. There was a tray of pens and an inkwell. He put the case on the floor between his feet. He relaxed for a moment. Frock-coated bank clerks padded softly by with papers in their hands. Feliks took a pen and wrote on the front of his envelope: