Aleks helped himself to more brandy. He is drinking steadily, Walden realized. His movements were deliberate and machinelike, as if he had himself rigidly under control.

“Where is Charlotte?” Walden said suddenly.

Aleks answered: “She went to bed.”

“She mustn’t leave the house while all this is going on.

Mrs. Braithwaite said: “Shall I tell her, my lord?”

“No, don’t wake her. I’ll see her at breakfast.” Walden took a sip of wine, hoping it would relax him a little. “We could move you again, Aleks, if it would make you feel better.”

Aleks gave a tight little smile. “I don’t think there’s much point, do you? Feliks always manages to find me. The best plan is for me to hide in my room, sign the treaty as soon as possible, and then go home.”

Walden nodded. The servants went out. Sir Arthur said: “Um, there is something else, Stephen.” He seemed embarrassed. “I mean, the question of just what made Feliks suddenly catch a train to Waldenhall Halt.”

In all the panic Walden had not even considered that. “Yes-how in Heaven’s name did he find out?”

“As I understand it, only two groups of people knew where Prince Orlov had gone. One is the embassy staff, who of course have been passing telegrams and so on to and fro. The other group is your people here.”

“A traitor among my servants?” Walden said. The thought was chilling.

“Yes,” said Sir Arthur hesitantly. “Or, of course, among the family.”

Lydia’s dinner party was a disaster. With Stephen away, his brother, George, had to sit in as host, which made the numbers uneven. More seriously, Lydia was so distracted that her conversation was barely polite, let alone sparkling. All but the most kindhearted guests asked after Charlotte, knowing full well that she was in disgrace. Lydia just said that she had gone to the country for a few days’ rest. She spoke mechanically, hardly knowing what she was saying. Her mind was full of nightmares: Feliks being arrested, Stephen being shot, Feliks being beaten, Stephen bleeding, Feliks running, Stephen dying. She longed to tell someone how she felt, but with her guests she could talk only of last night’s ball, the prospects for the Cowes Regatta, the Balkan situation and Lloyd George’s budget.

Fortunately they did not linger after dinner: they were all going to a ball, or a crush, or a concert. As soon as the last one had left Lydia went into the hall and picked up the telephone. She could not speak to Stephen, for Walden Hall was not yet on the phone, so she called Winston Churchill’s home in Eccleston Square. He was out. She tried the Admiralty, Number Ten and the National Liberal Club without success. She had to know what had happened. Finally she thought of Basil Thomson, and she telephoned Scotland Yard. Thomson was still at his desk, working late.

“Lady Walden, how are you?” he said.

Lydia thought: People will be polite! She said: “What is the news?”

“Bad, I’m afraid. Our friend Feliks has slipped through our fingers again.”

Relief washed over Lydia in a tidal wave. “Thank… thank you,” she said.

“I don’t think you need to worry too much,” Thomson went on. “Prince Orlov is well guarded, now.”

Lydia blushed with shame: she had been so pleased that Feliks was all right that she had momentarily forgotten to worry about Aleks and Stephen. “I… I’ll try not to worry,” she said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Lady Walden.”

She put down the phone.

She went upstairs and rang for her maid to come and unlace her. She felt distraught. Nothing was resolved; everyone she loved was still in danger. How long could it go on? Feliks would not give up, she was sure, unless he got caught.

The maid came and unbuttoned her gown and unlaced her corset. Some ladies confided in their maids, Lydia knew. She did not. She had once, in St. Petersburg…

She decided to write to her sister, for it was too early to go to bed. She told the maid to bring writing paper from the morning room. She put on a wrap and sat by the open window, staring into the darkness of the park. The evening was close. It had not rained for three months, but during the last few days the weather had become thundery, and soon there would surely be storms.

The maid brought paper, pens, ink and envelopes. Lydia took a sheet of paper and wrote: Dear Tatyana-

She did not know where to begin. How can I explain about Charlotte, she thought, when I don’t understand her myself? And I daren’t say anything about Feliks, for Tatyana might tell the Czar, and if the Czar knew how close Aleks had come to being killed…

Feliks is so clever. How on earth did he find out where Aleks is hiding? We wouldn’t even tell Charlotte!

Charlotte.

Lydia went cold.

Charlotte?

She stood upright and cried: “Oh, no!”

He was about forty, and wearing a tweed cap.

A sense of inevitable horror possessed her. It was like one of those crucifying dreams in which you think of the worst thing that could possibly happen and that thing immediately begins to happen: the ladder falls, the child is run over, the loved one dies.

She buried her face in her hands. She felt dizzy.

I must think. I must try to think.

Please, God, help me think.

Charlotte met a man in the National Gallery. That evening, she asked me where Aleks was. I didn’t tell her. Perhaps she asked Stephen, too: he wouldn’t have told her. Then she was sent home, to Walden Hall, and of course she discovered that Aleks was there. Two days later Feliks went to Waldenhall Halt.

Make this be a dream, she prayed; make me wake up, now, please, and find myself in my own bed, make it be morning.

It was not a dream. Feliks was the man in the tweed cap. Charlotte had met her father. They had been holding hands.

It was horrible, horrible.

Had Feliks told Charlotte the truth, had he said: “I am your real father,” had he revealed the secret of nineteen years? Did he even know? Surely he must have. Why else would she be… collaborating with him?

My daughter, conspiring with an anarchist to commit murder.

She must be helping him still.

What can I do? I must warn Stephen-but how can I do that without telling him he’s not Charlotte’s father? I wish I could think.

She rang for her maid again. I must find a way to put an end to this, she thought. I don’t know what I’m going to do but I must do something. When the maid came she said: “Start packing. I shall leave first thing in the morning. I have to go to Walden Hall.”

After dark Feliks headed across the fields. It was a warm, humid night, and very dark: heavy clouds hid the stars and the moon. He had to walk slowly, for he was almost blind. He found his way to the railway line and turned north.

Walking along the tracks he could go a little faster, for there was a faint shine on the steel lines, and he knew there would be no obstacles. He passed through dark stations, creeping along the deserted platforms. He heard rats in the empty waiting rooms. He had no fear of rats: once upon a time he had killed them with his hands and eaten them. The names of the stations were stamped on sheet-metal signs, and he could read them by touch.

When he reached Waldenhall Halt he recalled Charlotte’s directions: The house is three miles out of the village on the north road. The railway line was running roughly north-northeast. He followed it another mile or so, measuring the distance by counting his paces. He had reached one thousand six hundred when he bumped into someone.

The man gave a shout of surprise and then Feliks had him by the throat.

An overpowering smell of beer came from the man. Feliks realized he was just a drunk going home, and relaxed his grip.

“Don’t be frightened,” the man said in a slurred voice.

“All right,” Feliks said. He let go.