“Yes, sir.”

The bulging eyes stared at her. “You know who Narcissus was, Miss Slythe?”

“No, sir.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re a Puritan. You know your Bible stories, no doubt?”

“I hope so, sir.” She felt Sir Grenville was mocking her. He smiled.

“Narcissus was a young man of such beauty, Miss Slythe, that he fell in love with himself. He would spend hours gazing at his own reflection and, as a punishment, he was turned into a flower, that flower we now call the narcissus. Do you think he is handsome?”

She nodded, embarrassed by the question. “Yes, sir.”

“And so he is, Miss Slythe, so he is.” Sir Grenville was staring at his painting. “That picture is also a punishment.”

“A punishment, sir?”

“I knew the young man, Miss Slythe, and I offered him my friendship, but he chose to be my enemy. I had his face put on to that picture as revenge, so that everyone would think that he was my friend, would believe that he had posed like that.” He was looking at her, laughing at her. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Such innocence. All you need to know, Miss Slythe, is that I make a wonderful friend, and a very bitter enemy. Well?”

The last word was not addressed to Campion, but to a tall, well-built young man who had come into the room and now waited by the desk with a handful of papers. He gestured with the papers.

“The Manchester monies, Sir Grenville.”

Sir Grenville Cony turned. “Ah! My Lord of Manchester’s loan. I thought I had signed those papers, John.

“No, Sir Grenville.”

Sir Grenville walked to the table, took the sheaf of papers, and looked through them “Twelve percent, yes? What people will pay for money now! Is he importunate?”

“Yes, Sir Grenville.”

“Good. I like my debtors to be importunate.” He reached for a quill, dipped it in ink, and signed. Then, without turning round, he spoke to Campion. “Are you not warm in that cloak, Miss Slythe? My secretary will take it. John?” He gestured for the young man to take Campion’s cloak.

“I’ll keep it, sir. If I may,” she added lamely.

“Oh, you may, Miss Slythe, you may.” Sir Grenville was still looking at papers. “You may do as you like, it seems.” He plucked one paper from the desk. “John, tell my Lord of Essex that if we put a tax upon saltpeter he will have no powder for his guns. I suppose we must treat him as a simple soldier. He seems intent on being one.” He thrust the papers at his secretary. “Good. Now leave us alone. Miss Slythe and I do not wish to be disturbed.”

The secretary left and, once again, there was the ominous sound of a door being locked. Sir Grenville Cony ignored it, thrusting his huge belly between the angle of table and wall, and then settling in the vast leather chair. “So you are Miss Dorcas Slythe.”