That Thursday afternoon in April, when he rescued me from the underpass, we walked back to Russia Road arm in arm. Anyone seeing us might have supposed us old friends who had been together for years. He talked to me about things no young person usually knows anything about. The gardens of Maida Vale, for instance. Had I looked at the gardens? The flowers? A house in Warrington Crescent had a mimosa in a pot in the basement, its leaves and yellow flowers reaching up to the first-floor window. It was in flower in December. Another had a tree fern. Look at that wisteria, he said, look at the garrya and its green catkins. Did I know why the gardens of Maida Vale were full of rare and beautiful plants? It was because of the nursery in Clifton Villas, he said, the best and oldest in London, a hundred years old, and it only stocked special plants. Everyone went to it to stock their gardens. Suppose, in its stead, a typical garden center had been there, selling pampas grass and kanzans and privet. The whole place would look quite different.

He let us into 15 Russia Road. The hall I’d caught a glimpse of before was just like Max and Selina’s, same beige carpet, same console table, same, or very nearly the same, but a chandelier instead of a lantern, and instead of the country-house prints a strange dark painting of Dutch people playing cards. On the wall facing the picture hung two glass cases of butterflies, their beautiful corpses with spread wings pinned to a black background—painted ladies, red admirals, a purple emperor.

“You’re not bothered by heights, are you?” he asked.

“Not a bit. I like heights.”

“Yes. Silly question. I ought to know that someone who doesn’t like tunnels is going to love being high up.”

Four flights of stairs. At the top the arrangement of rooms was quite different from Max’s. Facing me, beyond a small square landing, was the door with the glass panel in it that afforded Beryl those tantalizing views of what went on inside. But there was no view that day. Someone had pinned a sheet of paper over the glass on the inside. Silver unlocked the door and we went in. Again I expected something like Max’s top floor but it was quite different. It was as if someone had made all the little rooms into an open-plan arrangement and then attempted to turn them back again with makeshift plasterboard walls and a couple of Victorian tapestry screens. I later got to know that there were three bedrooms up there and a living room.