They arrived at last outside the Broadway Theatre, and Collis climbed down from the hansom and paid the driver thirty cents. Then, tugging his grey silk vest straight and setting his black silk top hat slightly back on his head, which these days was considered the rakish way of wearing it, he walked through brass-and-mahogany doors to the Gem Saloon. It wasn’t crowded yet, as it would become later in the evening, but already one or two of his cronies were there, leaning up against the far end of the bar, next to the elaborately decorated and curtained dining booths. The smoke was thick and the conversation was loud and cheerful.

The Gem Saloon was high-ceilinged, with a polished floor of chequered marble, and a fine long bar, carved with satyrs and cupids in bas-relief. Behind the white-jacketed backs of the barkeepers, reflecting the gas standards and the jugs and the bottles, and the clientele themselves, was the largest mirror in the whole of New York City, framed in convoluted gilt and crested by a mean-looking eagle. The Gem was still one of the most fashionable bars for young gentlemen and for aspiring New York politicians, although the Tammany hierarchy didn’t frequent it as often as they once used to, now that prohibition was becoming an increasingly sensitive issue.

Henry Browne was drinking old-fashioneds and telling a long story about a talking dog. ‘Collis!’ he called. ‘Come and join us! What a fortuitous arrival!’

Jack De Veeart of the coffee-importing De Veearts was there, a ruddy young man whose neckties looked as if they were going to strangle him; and Lewis Dunlop, who had big ears and was often dull-witted, but who was rich, through the grace of his commodity-dealing father, beyond almost all comparison. Henry Browne was older than all of them, twenty-six, and far more self-assured. He had joined the army as a lieutenant, but there had been a marginally scandalous affair involving a colonel and his wife, and he had discreetly left the service, with official approval, after only three years. Subsequently, he had studied for two years, at New York University, though quite what he had studied he claimed he could never recall. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a head of curly light-brown hair, and Collis always felt about him that he would be a good friend to have around in a fight.

Jimmy the barkeeper asked, ‘Mr Edmonds? What will you take, sir?’

‘A draught beer, please, and the sooner the better,’ said Collis. ‘It’s as warm as a street sweeper’s armpit out there.’

Jimmy took a porter glass out of its bed of ice and poured Collis a beer. Collis drank it gratefully, wiped his mouth, and then set the glass on the bar. Jack De Veeart inquired, ‘Better? Back in the land of the living and breathing?’

Collis nodded. ‘Good,’ said Jack. ‘Now Henry can carry on with his story.’