I stared at him. He hesitated and gazed down at his glass.

‘But if I am not mistaken, Monsieur DuLac, Monsieur Mariot implied you believed he bore a resemblance to Lord Allenham, with whom you had some acquaintance when he was your pupil?’

Mariot cast his friend an inquisitive look, but DuLac did not meet it.

‘That is correct, madame, but it was . . . some time ago and I am certain your husband no longer resembles the boy I once knew. Human physiognomy possesses a great capacity for alteration over the years.’ He gave an awkward laugh.

Although I attempted to politely conceal it, my brow furrowed with mounting frustration.

‘Do you mean to say, monsieur, that you are now uncertain if this stranger bore any resemblance at all to my husband?’

‘With all due respect, madame, I have since concluded it most unlikely. This gentleman with whom I spoke heralded from America, a native of Boston. He was a printer and had come to Paris to practise his loathsome art, if that indeed is what it might be called. He espoused such seditious notions on the nature of liberty and the French nation that I found him quite odious.’

I sat for a spell. This was not what I had anticipated I would hear.

‘I am a good deal sorry to have disappointed you, madame, for I suspect your travails have been terrible ones. I take it that you have tried all avenues and applied even to your King’s emissary in Paris? And that too has failed to offer you any satisfaction?’

I nodded. I feared that my desperation was now growing most apparent upon my face.

‘But you must describe to me, monsieur, something of his appearance,’ said I in a voice almost pleading, ‘for my husband is unmistakable for that . . .’

DuLac sat for a spell twisting his mouth in contemplation. ‘He did indeed look as I recalled my dear pupil. He possessed dark hair and eyes as exquisite as gems. He was an exceptionally handsome boy, even at sixteen. Eh, but this man . . . well, I suppose even the devil can sport a handsome disguise.’ He sniffed and reached for his glass.

‘And his name, Monsieur DuLac?’

‘His name, madame?’

‘Yes, did he not introduce himself to you?’

‘Why yes, but his name was not Allenham.’ He laughed and wagged his head.

‘Then, I beg you, monsieur, what name did he give?’

DuLac had begun to appear weary. He exhaled loudly through his mouth.

‘I am afraid . . . I am afraid I do not recall, madame.’

‘Pray, monsieur, do attempt it – for a poor wife who has endured such terrible travails as I?’