“Thank you,” said Brett, “thank you, thank you.” He hesitated, looking down at Ivan, who was so much smaller. “I’m sorry,” he went on. “Everything I said—I did know you were listening, but I wanted to try to show you that I saw, or thought I saw, how it all came about. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly Ivan spoke; a soft rapid sentence of which Brett understood not a word. It took him a couple of seconds to realise that Ivan must have spoken in Russian. How could he possibly answer that? He ran off in his mind his brief Russian vocabulary. Tsar, kremlin, soviet, niet. He was silent.

So was the marsh. Outside the windlike roar of the fire the hush was broken only by brushes of the real wind. The helicopter had gone, the cars were still. And through the silence came a shout.

Ivan started. Brett, nearly falling, discovered that he had been leaning on him.

“No,” he said, holding him back; for he had made to run away. “Where would running take you? Only to them. It’s hopeless. The ditches? No, no, you won’t do that again. You did something even harder, and that with a clear mind—came back when you needn’t have, risked being caught—no, made it certain—all for three strangers. Then don’t go. Just clinch it, finish it, prove it—to Majendie who knew other Karukhins, to them, who’ll see the only one that’s left. Don’t try to run away. Go to meet them.”

He stared down into Ivan’s face. Behind them Majendie’s voice rose in a quavering shout.

“They’re coming,” said Brett. “They’ll be here in a minute. Don’t let them just find you, Ivan, go to meet them. Quick, go now. Show them, show them—please.”

Without looking at him, Ivan took two steps forward; three. He stopped. There were men running towards him; a lot of men.

Brett tried to will him to go on. But he knew he couldn’t do it. He hadn’t even strength to keep trying. He gave up; and a whole phrase of Russian slipped into his mind. It was foolish, extravagant, inapposite; the title of the opera in which, very shortly, he would be playing the part of a professional buffoon.

“Lyubov k trem Apelsinam!” he said.

Ivan turned. “Oranges? Love of three oranges?” he said in a tremulous London voice. He shook his head—pityingly, as Brett realised. “Sometimes you say things make me think you’re daft.”

He turned back, and walked towards the approaching police.

“Schoolboys?” interrupted the Superintendent.

“Yes, sir,” said Beddoes, with a poker face and back. “Grammar schoolboys, sir, I believe.”

“Well, never mind, sergeant. Go on.”