“Thank you.”

Feliks took her arm as they walked along the street. The sun was still strong. A policeman walked toward them, and Feliks made her stop and look in a shop window while he passed. She said: “Why don’t you want him to see us?”

“They may be looking for people who were seen on the march.”

Charlotte frowned. That seemed a bit unlikely, but he would know better than she.

They walked on. Charlotte said: “I love June.”

“The weather in England is wonderful.”

“Do you think so? You’ve never been to the South of France, then.”

“You have, obviously.”

“We go every winter. We’ve a villa in Monte Carlo.” She was struck by a thought. “I hope you don’t think I’m boasting.”

“Certainly not.” He smiled. “You must have realized by now that I think great wealth is something to be ashamed of, not proud of.”

“I suppose I should have realized, but I hadn’t. Do you despise me, then?”

“No, but the wealth isn’t yours.”

“You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met,” Charlotte said. “May I see you again?”

“Yes,” he said. “Have you got a handkerchief?”

She took one from her coat pocket and gave it to him. He blew his nose. “You are catching a cold,” she said. “Your eyes are streaming.”

“You must be right.” He wiped his eyes. “Shall we meet at that café?”

“It’s not a frightfully attractive place, is it?” she said. “Let’s think of somewhere else. I know! We’ll go to the National Gallery. Then, if I see somebody I know, we can pretend we aren’t together.”

“All right.”

“Do you like paintings?”

“I’d like you to educate me.”

“Then it’s settled. How about the day after tomorrow, at two o’clock?”

“Fine.”

It occurred to her that she might not be able to get away. “If something goes wrong, and I have to cancel, can I send you a note?”

“Well… er… I move about a lot…” He was struck by a thought. “But you can always leave a message with Mrs. Bridget Callahan at number nineteen, Cork Street, in Camden Town.”

She repeated the address. “I’ll write that down as soon as I get home. My house is just a few hundred yards away.” She hesitated. “You must leave me here. I hope you won’t be offended, but it really would be best if no one saw me with you.”

“Offended?” he said with his funny, twisted smile. “No, not at all.”

She held out her hand. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” He shook her hand firmly.

She turned around and walked away. There will be trouble when I get home, she thought. They will have found out that I’m not in my room, and there will be an inquisition. I’ll say I went for a walk in the park. They won’t like it.

Somehow she did not care what they thought. She had found a true friend. She was very happy.

When she reached the gate she turned and looked back. He stood where she had left him, watching her. She gave a discreet wave. He waved back. For some reason he looked vulnerable and sad, standing there alone. That was silly, she realized, as she remembered how he had rescued her from the riot: he was very tough indeed.

She went into the courtyard and up the steps to the front door.

Walden arrived at Walden Hall suffering from nervous indigestion. He had rushed away from London before lunch as soon as the police artist had finished drawing the face of the assassin, and he had eaten a picnic and drunk a bottle of Chablis on the way down, without stopping the car. As well as that, he was nervous.

Today he was due for another session with Aleks. He guessed that Aleks had a counterproposal and expected the Czar’s approval of it by cable today. He hoped the Russian Embassy had had the sense to forward cables to Aleks at Walden Hall. He hoped the counterproposal was something reasonable, something he could present to Churchill as a triumph.

He was fiercely impatient to get down to business with Aleks, but he knew that in reality a few minutes made no difference, and it was always a mistake to appear eager during a negotiation; so he paused in the hall and composed himself before walking into the Octagon.

Aleks sat at the window, brooding, with a great tray of tea and cakes untouched beside him. He looked up eagerly and said: “What happened?”

“The man came, but I’m afraid we failed to catch him,” Walden said.

Aleks looked away. “He came to kill me…”

Walden felt a surge of pity for him. He was young, he had a huge responsibility, he was in a foreign country and a killer was stalking him. But there was no point in letting him brood. Walden put on a breezy tone of voice. “We have the man’s description now-in fact the police artist has made a drawing of him. Thomson will catch him in a day or so. And you’re safe here-he can’t possibly find out where you are.”

“We thought I was safe at the hotel-but he found out I was there.”

“That can’t happen again.” This was a bad start to a negotiating session, Walden reflected. He had to find a way to turn Aleks’s mind to more cheerful subjects. “Have you had tea?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Let’s go for a walk-it will give you an appetite for dinner.”

“All right.” Aleks stood up.

Walden got a gun-for rabbits, he told Aleks-and they walked down to the Home Farm. One of the two bodyguards provided by Basil Thomson followed ten yards behind them.

Walden showed Aleks his champion sow, the Princess of Walden. “She’s won first prize in the East Anglian Agricultural Show for the last two years.” Aleks admired the sturdy brick cottages of the tenants, the tall white-painted barns, and the magnificent shire horses.

“I don’t make any money out of it, of course,” Walden said. “All the profit is spent on new stock, or drainage, or buildings, or fencing… but it sets a standard for the tenanted farms; and the Home Farm will be worth a lot more when I die than it was when I inherited it.”

“We can’t farm like this in Russia,” Aleks said. Good, thought Walden; he’s thinking of something else. Aleks went on: “Our peasants won’t use new methods, won’t touch machinery, won’t take care of new buildings or good tools. They are still serfs, psychologically if not legally. When there is a bad harvest and they are starving, do you know what they do? They burn the empty barns.”

The men were mowing hay in the South Acre. Twelve laborers made a ragged line across the field, stooped over their scythes, and there was a steady swish, swish as the tall stalks fell like dominoes.

Samuel Jones, the oldest of the laborers, finished his row first. He came over, scythe in hand, and touched his cap to Walden. Walden shook his callused hand. It was like grasping a rock.

“Did your lordship find time to go to that there exhibition in Lunnun?” Samuel said.

“Yes, I did,” Walden replied.

“Did you see that mowing machine you was talking about?”

Walden put on a dubious face. “It’s a beautiful piece of engineering, Sam-but I don’t know…”

Sam nodded. “Machinery never does the job as well as a laborer.”

“On the other hand, we could cut the hay in three days instead of a fortnight-and by getting it in that much faster we run less risk of rain. Then we could rent the machine to the tenanted farms.”

“You’d need fewer laborers, too,” Sam said.

Walden pretended to be disappointed. “No,” he said, “I couldn’t let anyone go. It would just mean we need not take on gypsies to help around harvesttime.”

“It wouldn’t make that much difference, then.”

“Not really. And I’m a bit concerned about how the men would take to it-you know young Peter Dawkins will find any excuse to make trouble.”

Sam made a noncommittal sound.

“Anyway,” Walden continued, “Mr. Samson is going to take a look at the machine next week.” Samson was the bailiff. “I say!” Walden said as if he had been struck by an idea. “I don’t suppose you’d want to go with him, Sam?”