He nodded, swallowed, and smiled again. “So you have come all this way to find out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, good!” The hand was almost at the dish again. He turned. “John! John!”

The door was unlocked. Campion supposed that the secretary would be asked to fetch some papers, maybe even the Covenant itself, but instead he brought two shallow dishes on a tray. Sir Grenville waved toward Campion and the tray was offered to her. She took one dish, the thin china fearfully hot. She was forced to put the dish on the carpet, and saw that it contained a dark, transparent liquid in which some brown scraps floated.

Sir Grenville had taken the second dish, after which the secretary left, closing and locking the door. Sir Grenville smiled. “Tea, Miss Slythe. Have you ever drunk tea?”

“No, sir.”

“You poor deprived child. You have never heard of Narcissus, and you have never drunk tea. It is a drink, Miss Slythe, brought from the Orient at considerable risk to mariners’ lives, merely so we can enjoy it. Don’t worry,” he had raised a pudgy hand, “it contains no spiritous liquor. You may drink it in the knowledge that your soul is quite safe.” He bent over the dish of tea and slurped it noisily, straining it between his thin lips, and still his eyes seemed fixed on her. “Try it, Miss Slythe. It is most expensive, and I will be offended if you spurn my kindness.”

She used the edges of her silver-blue cloak to carry the dish to her mouth. She had heard of tea, but never seen it, and the taste was strong and nauseating. She made a face.

“You don’t like it, Miss Slythe?”

“It’s bitter.”

“So many things in life are, don’t you think?” It seemed to Campion that Sir Grenville was trying to be friendly now. She had stated her business, he must approve, and now he seemed to want to put her at her ease. His left hand crept once more toward the pie dish, which at last he acknowledged. “It is a quince tart, Miss Slythe. Do you like quince tart?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you must try Mrs. Parton’s quince tarts. She makes them in a small house by Lambeth Stairs, from where they are conveyed to me, quite fresh, each morning. Have you brought me the seal?”

The question surprised her, startled her, so much that she spilled some of the tea on to her beautiful, new cloak. She cried out in dismay, and the distraction gave her a second or two to think. “No!”

“No what?”

“I have not brought the seal.” She was astonished at the vigor of his attack.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know!”

Sir Grenville Cony stared at her. She had the sensation that his pale, bulging eyes saw clean through her, into the recesses of her soul. She still held the tea-dish, her face still bore her distress at the stain on her new cloak. Suddenly he had seemed friendly, the offer of tea convincing her that he was prepared to deal kindly with her, yet now she realized that Sir Grenville was far better prepared for this interview than she was. He had not needed to tell his secretary what he wanted, the tea had been prearranged, and just as she was relaxing he had hit her with his fast questions. She put the tea unsteadily on to the carpet. Sir Grenville’s voice was still harsh.