'No. I know it is regarded as great entertainment, but somehow I...’

'Oh, it's not too bad,' Stafford said enthusiastically. 'It's worse when you know the condemned man. Saw a cousin o' mine turned orf, once. Stood there a couple o' hours I did, waiting. Then as they fetched him out, St Sepulchre's church bell began tolling, the parson began saying the funeral service, an' that was that. Born to be cropped, my cousin was.'

'Cropped?' Louis asked, puzzled at the word.

'Yus, "Knocked down fer a crop." That's when the judge says the cramp words.'

The Frenchman shook his head, mystified, and Ramage looked puzzled. 'It's slang, yes, but what does it mean?'

'Mean yer don't know, sir?' Stafford said disbelievingly, 'Well, the cramp words is what the judge says when he knocks - when he sentences yer ter death. An' sentencing a man to death is - well, it's putting the noose round the neck and cropping 'im on collar day.'

'Collar day?' Louis exclaimed. 'Mon Dieu, what English is this?'

‘The noose fits like a collar,' Stafford explained crossly. 'Honest, Louis, yer don't speak English very good, really.'

'I do my best,' the Frenchman said wryly.

When Jobert and his wife brought up their supper promptly at seven o'clock there was still no sign of the lieutenant-de-vaisseau. Louis came in while the food was being served and as he sat down he said casually to the landlord: ‘I hope the lieutenant won't be too late tonight; we have a card tournament arranged.'

'Ah, we do not know what has delayed him. His other friend - the one you were playing cards with on Monday night - called in a few minutes ago. He said he did not want to miss another exciting evening.'

His wife made a disapproving noise and Louis raised his eyebrows questioningly. 'Gambling,' she sniffed. 'Such a waste of good time!'

'The citizens must choose how they divert themselves,' the landlord said reprovingly. 'They work hard for the Republic, and they deserve some relaxation.'

The woman muttered something Ramage and Louis could not catch, but her husband turned to them apologetically. 'My daughter - she is upset. She has not seen much of the lieutenant on his last two visits. I keep telling them that it is not often we have citizens in the hotel with whom the lieutenant can relax, but...'

Louis was quick to make profuse apologies to the woman. This is our last night here,' he concluded sadly.

She sniffed. 'You have not settled your account yet, Citizen,' she said acidly.

'Mon Dieu!' Louis muttered, and helped himself to more soup.

As soon as they had finished eating and Jobert had cleared the table, Louis followed him downstairs to settle the bill. He returned fifteen minutes later, cursing the landlord for a thief.

'There is a special charge for the "medicine",' he said angrily. 'And they've charged for a full meal every time you and Stafford had a plate of broth. The "medicine" is . . .'

'But you paid?' Ramage interrupted anxiously. "We don't want -'

'Don't worry, I made just the amount of fuss a French landlord would expect another Frenchman to make, and I made him reduce the bill by twenty per cent. He would have been suspicious if I'd paid the full amount!'

'No sign of the lieutenant?'

'No, the landlord is quite worried and his daughter in tears. He has never been as late as this. The girl is sure he has been thrown from his horse and is lying dead in a ditch.'

Ramage took out his watch. 'Just before nine o'clock. 1 hope she's not right!'

‘Tonight of all nights,' Louis said grimly. 'I thought everything had been going too well.' He rubbed his bristly chin in a characteristic gesture. 'Of course it could be the fault of Admiral Bruix . . .'

Ramage said nothing. From the time they had told the landlord that they would be returning to Boulogne on Sunday morning, he had known that the one thing that could wreck all their plans was the Admiral being late with the report. He might not finish it until late Saturday evening, and the lieutenant would get orders to ride direct to Paris without stopping - a hard ride but not impossible. The Admiral might not finish it until Sunday, and even then the lieutenant could still arrive in Paris in time to deliver it to the Minister on Monday.

Come to think of it - and he cursed himself for not paying more attention to the point - there was really nothing in Bruix's earlier letter that promised the Minister that the report would be sent off from Boulogne on Saturday. It was all his own assumption - that because the weekly dispatch to the Minister was always sent off on a Saturday, the special report would be treated in the same way. Yet the fact that it was a special report could mean that it would be dealt with specially: sent off to Paris as soon as it was ready, rather than have it dispatched in the regular way.

All this damned waiting, being cooped up in this room for a week, that damnable medicine, too, most likely for nothing. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. He glanced up at Louis and knew the same thoughts were crossing the Frenchman's mind.

'If we can think of a reason to tell the landlord for staying longer, are those travel papers all right?'

'Yes, only the date that they were issued is written down, and they are for a single journey from Amiens to Boulogne. There is no final date, but they are valid for one month.'

‘I'll have to have a relapse. Hmm, no,' he finally decided, this was an occasion when he would take advantage of being an officer. 'I think Stafford will have a relapse. With a couple more blankets on his bed, he'll pass for feverish.'

The Cockney looked up at hearing his name, a puzzled grin on his face.

'I was telling Louis that if the lieutenant doesn't come tonight, we'll have to stay here until he does. We'll need a reason - and you look a bit feverish.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Stafford said cheerfully, and then his face fell. 'It don't mean more of that medicine, do it?'

'I won't hear a word against it - Louis says they've charged us three times the price of brandy for it.'

'Ah, 'tis too expensive for the likes of me,' Stafford said quickly. 'I'll make do with broth.' He looked keenly at Ramage and recognized the worried look. 'Is it dangerous, staying on 'ere, sir? I mean, would you rarver go somewhere else and 'ide? Louis is bound to know a safe 'ouse. I can 'eave this case an' bring you the satchel.'

'Heave this case?'

Had Stafford been a girl, Ramage would have said he suddenly looked coy as he said; 'I always tell a clerk ter put down "locksmith", sir, but - well, a'fore the press gang took me up I sort o' worked in Bridewell Lane on me own account, like.'

'At night, you mean,' Ramage said helpfully.

'That's right, sir.' He grinned when he realized that Ramage was pulling his leg. 'We can keep a watch on the 'tenant's window each night. When we see a light we know 'e's 'ere. When the light goes out we know 'e's gorn fer 'is grub, an' our Will is up the drainpipe and darn again with the satchel a'fore you can say Jack Ketch.'

Ramage envied the Cockney's nonchalance. 'Heave the case,' he reminded him.

Stafford's jaw dropped for a moment, and then he grinned again. 'Our slang, sir. "Heave" is - well, you'd call it burgle. A "case" is -' he thought hard for a moment, 'well, it's the place wot gets burgled. Like the Italian word,'

'Casa? But that means "house",'

'Exackly,' Stafford said triumphantly. 'Yer see . . .'

His voice tailed off as all three men's eyes went to the door.

There were heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Two men . . . the landlord was speaking, although it was impossible to distinguish his words. They reached the corridor, and still the landlord was talking. He sounded anxious. Another guest who was doubtful about the quality of the rooms? Then the coarse laugh of the lieutenant.