Mr Dent nodded: ‘If it comes to a passage of arms, as it surely will, no one who has any familiarity with the state of China’s defences can doubt that our forces will prevail. Nor can there be any doubt that once the outcome is decided the British government will ensure that we are repaid for our losses, and at rates that are to our advantage.’ Now, steepling his fingertips, Dent looked around the library. ‘We are all businessmen here, so I need hardly explain to you the implications of this. In effect we will not be giving up our cargoes to Commissioner Lin.’ Here he paused to flash a smile at his listeners: ‘No, we will be extending him a loan – one that will be repaid at a rate of interest that will serve both as a punishment for his arrogance and a reward for our patience.’

Glancing around the room Bahram saw that many heads were nodding in agreement. He realized suddenly that he was alone in being utterly dismayed by this turn of events. His alarm grew deeper when not a single voice was raised in protest, even when Captain Elliott rose to his feet to say: ‘I take it there are no further objections?’

To speak in public, in English, was not something Bahram had ever liked to do, but he could not stifle the cry that now burst from his throat. ‘Yes, Captain Elliott! I object.’

Captain Elliott’s face hardened as he turned to look in his direction. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said with a raised eyebrow.

‘You cannot give in, Captain Elliott!’ cried Bahram. ‘Please – you must stand fast. Surely you can see, no? If you give in now, this man will win – this Commissioner. He will win without harming a hair on our heads, without touching a weapon. He will win just by writing these things –’ Bahram pointed at the papers in the translator’s hands – ‘he will win by writing these, what do you call them? Hookums? Chitties? Letters?’

Captain Elliott’s face creased into a smile. ‘I assure you, Mr Moddie, the Commissioner’s victory will be short-lived. As a naval officer I can tell you that battles are not won by letter-writers.’

‘And still he has won, hasn’t he?’ said Bahram. ‘At least this battle is his, is it not?’ He had no other words in which to express his desolation, his sense of betrayal. He could not bear to look at Captain Elliott any more: how could he ever have imagined that this man would somehow conjure up an outcome that was favourable to himself?

Mr Burnham had swivelled around in his chair, and he broke in with a broad smile.

‘But Mr Moddie, don’t you see? The Commissioner’s victory – if such it is – will be purely illusory. We will get back everything we give up, and more. Our investors stand to make handsome profits. It is just a matter of waiting.’

‘That is just it,’ said Bahram. ‘How long will we have to wait?’