"It is particularly telling that the National Gallery, not distinguished by its innovative imagination, has arranged to place the Marini Horse on display for one day before it is sold and-who knows-possibly lost to England forever. Etc. Etc."

Jonathan's finger was tender with dialing by the time he had finished his list of two-step opinion leaders. But he made one further call, this one to fforbes-Ffitch at the Royal College of Art.

"Jonathan! How good of you to call! Just a moment. Let me clear the decks here, so I can talk to you." fforbes-Ffitch held the telephone away from his mouth to tell his secretary that he would continue his dictation later.

"Now then, Jonathan! Good Lord! I'm up to my ears. No rest for the wicked, eh?"

"Nor for the poorly organized."

"What? Oh. Oh, yes." He laughed heavily at the jest, to prove he had gotten it. "One thing is certain: The men higher up certainly cleave to the adage that the only way to get a job done is to give it to a busy man. My desk's awash with things that have to be done yesterday. Oh, say! So sorry I didn't see you after that lecture here the other day. A smashing success. Sorry about the mix-up in topics. But I think you landed on your feet. And I have to admit that it was a bit of a feather in the cap to get you there. Never hurts to know who to know, right?"

"It was about feathers and caps that I wanted to talk."

"Oh?"

"You've been after me to do that series of lectures in Stockholm."

"I have indeed! Don't tell me you're weakening?"

"Yes. That is the quid. And there's a quo. You're a trustee of the National Gallery, aren't you?"

"Yes. Youngest ever. Something to do with the government attempting to project a 'with-it' image. Does what you want have something to do with the Gallery?"

"Let's get together and talk about it this afternoon."

"Lord, Jonathan. Don't know that I can. Calendar bulging, you know. Here, let's see what I can do." Holding the phone only a little away from his mouth, fforbes-Ffitch clicked on his intercom. "Miss Plimsol? What do I look like for this afternoon? Over."

A voice told him he had a conference coming up in ten minutes, then he had arranged to take a business drink with Sir Wilfred Pyles at the club.

"A drink with Sir Wilfred?" fforbes-Ffitch repeated, in case Jonathan had not heard. "What time is that? Over."

"Four o'clock, sir."

"Sixteen hundred hours, eh? Right. Over and out Jonathan? What do you say to a drink at my club at sixteen forty-five hours?"

"Fine."

"You know the club, don't you?"

"Yes, I know it."

"Right, then. See you there. Been grand chatting with you. Let's hope everyone benefits. Ta-ta."

Just as Jonathan set the phone back on its cradle, it rang under his hand, and the effect of the coincidence was a little rattling.

"Jonathan Hemlock."

"Hey, long time no see, man. Until Miss Coyne checked in with me a couple of hours ago, we didn't know what had happened to you."

"I'm fine, Yank. Why are you calling?"

"I've been trying to get you for two hours. But your line was always busy. What's up, doc?"

"You can tell the Vicar that things are moving along."

"Great. But you can tell him yourself. Tonight. Things are coming to a head. He wants to have a little confab with you. Can do?"

"Miss Coyne mentioned that to me. Where?"

"At the Vicarage."

"All right. I'll drive out. Probably get there six or seven in the evening."

"Roger-dodger. Oh, by the way. Sorry I wasn't able to get through to those MI-5 guys in time."

"That's all right. I took care of them."

"Yes, I know. The man at MI-5 had me on the carpet. Two of the guys are still in hospital."

"They probably need the rest."

"I thought it would be best if we didn't mention this to the Vicar. No use getting his bowels in an uproar. You dig?"

"Whatever."

"Okeydoke. Hang in there."

Jonathan hung up. Talking to Yank always filled him with bone-deep fatigue-like the prospect of going shopping with a woman.

Then one oblique consolation to all this occurred to him. Whatever happened, he had ten thousand pounds from Strange-about twenty-five thousand dollars made at the cost of a few hours of telephoning. The trick was, living to spend it.

fforbes-Ffitch's club was only a short walk up from Claridge's, not far from Jonathan's Mayfair flat. It was typically clubby: a good address for taking lunch; a large and comfortable dining room with stiff linen and conversation, where one was served by nanny waitresses with skins the color and texture of the Yorkshire puddings they foisted upon you; the carafe wine was decent; and there were heavy comfortable leather chairs in the lounge for taking coffee and brandy, and for being seen chatting with people who wanted to be seen chatting with you. As an institution, it shared the catholic British problem of not being what it used to be. There simply wasn't the money floating about to support such monuments to gentle leisure since British socialism, failing in its efforts to share the wealth, had devoted itself to sharing the poverty.

The ostensible criteria for club membership were relations with the world of art and letters, but there were more critics than painters, more publishers than writers, more teachers than practitioners. Typically correct in bulk and shoddy in detail, it was the kind of place that prided itself on an excellent Stilton soaked in port, but served white pepper. The members wore suits, the fine material and careless fitting of which bespoke London's better tailors, but they wore short socks that displayed rather a lot of shiny, pallid shin as they sat sprawled in the lounge.

fforbes-Ffitch was just saying good-bye to Sir Wilfred when the part-French hostess conducted Jonathan into their company.

"Ah! There you are, Jonathan. Sir Wilfred, may I present Jonathan Hemlock? He's the man I was just mentioning-"

"Hello, Jon."

"Fred."

"Damned if it doesn't seem that everybody in London is devoted to the task of introducing us. Makes me wonder if there was something faulty in our first acquaintance."

"Oh." fforbes-Ffitch was crestfallen. "You've met, then."

"Rather often, really," Sir Wilfred said. "We've just been chatting, fforbes-Ffitch and I, about your going to Stockholm to do that series of lectures for him. You will have my commission's fiscal support. Delighted you have decided to do it, Jon."

"It isn't settled yet."

"Oh?" Sir Wilfred raised his eyebrows at fforbes-Ffitch. "I'd rather got the impression it was."

"I'm sure we'll be able to work it out," f-F said quickly, with an offhand gesture.

"Say, may I have a word with you, Jon? You wouldn't mind, would you?"

"Not at all," fforbes-Ffitch said. He stood smiling politely at the silent men, then with a sudden catch he said, "Oh! Oh, I see. Yes. Well, I'll order a couple of drinks then." He departed for the bar.

Sir Wilfred drew Jonathan toward the deep-set windows that overlooked the street. "Tell me, Jon. Are you quite all right? I am speaking of this Maximilian Strange business, of course."

"Don't worry, Fred. There's nothing going on. It was a false alarm."

Sir Wilfred examined Jonathan's eyes closely. "Well, let's hope so." Then his manner relaxed and brightened. "Well, now I must be off."

"The demands of business?"

"What? Oh. No. The demands of dalliance, actually. Take care."

Jonathan found fforbes-Ffitch sitting rigidly on the front edge of a deep lounge chair in a quiet corner. He was making much of being a busy man kept waiting, frowning and checking his watch. "You might have told me you knew Sir Wilfred," he complained, as Jonathan sat across from him. "Saved me a touch of embarrassment."

"Nonsense. Embarrassment becomes you."

"Oh? Really? No, you're having me on."