Collis kissed her. ‘I do. And I love you, too.’

They made love that night more lingeringly than they had ever done before. They let each kiss last for whole minutes, and each caress stretch out across the moonlit bedroom like the fading echoes of a song. When Collis first embraced Hannah as her husband, she slowly dug her long fingernails into the muscles of his back, deep, and held him against her as if she wanted him to suffocate her; and as their lovemaking moved to its exquisite culmination, she moaned and sniffed with pleasure, and with disappointment that it was over.

Collis sat up in bed afterwards, propped up on his feather pillow, watching the bald light of the moon fall across the rug, and shine on the backs of his silver hairbrushes. Hannah snuggled up close to him, and gradually fell asleep.

He wondered if he would ever be able to tell Hannah about Mr Kwang, and the favour that the On Leong Tong had done for him. Somehow the thought of having to conceal his complicity in Walter’s death for the rest of his married life seemed to be too complicated to bear. It would be like trying to speak to Hannah with a fishbone in his throat.

He looked across at his cigar case, and considered lighting one up. But then he remembered that Hannah was not his mistress anymore, she was his wife, and she would probably object to stale cigar smoke in the bedroom. He watched her sleeping for a while, and touched her eyelids and the tip of her nose with his finger. She looked older when she was asleep, but still beautiful. He wondered if she was dreaming of the High Sierras.

Kwang Lee had a silent and sometimes mocking manner about him, but in time he became as attached to Collis as Wang-Pu had been and served him as efficiently and as loyally. Unlike Wang-Pu, he did not believe in dressing formally, and his usual get-up was a linen cap with the peak turned backwards, a very clean blue shirt, and a hardware apron with dozens of pockets. He lived in a room at the back of the store, and cooked his own food in a wok, and brewed endless cups of Dragon Well tea.

Sometimes Collis joined him for a small bowl of tung-po pork, or bacon and bamboo-shoot soup, and Kwang Lee would tell stories and jokes about his childhood in Hangchow. But there was no sentimentality about them, as there had been with Wang-Pu. Kwang Lee was a smart cookie, a wisecracker, and it was impossible to tell if any of his stories were true.

Once Collis asked him if Mr Kwang was a man who believed in having favours returned, even favours which hadn’t been asked for.

Kwang Lee was stirring bean sprouts in his wok, and the room was hazy with blue smoke. ‘You mean Mr West?’ he asked directly.

Collis raised his eyebrows. ‘Then it was Mr Kwang?’