No sooner had the man’s name been spoken than he removed his hat, slowly revealing his dark tresses, hanging loose to his shoulders.

At first I could not take him in, for in truth, reader, my heart and senses had suffered such wounds as to render me near insensible to any matter which passed before me. I stood entirely numb.

He did not venture to catch my eye. Truly, in my present circumstance I believe he could not bear to look upon me, while he himself appeared greatly shaken. His hands clenched in fists as he held the wooden dowels of the screen.

‘Citizen,’ he cried, ‘this prisoner is innocent!’

All within the room fell silent. Fouquier-Tinville approached him slowly, an expression of bemusement on his face.

‘I fear . . . I hope I have arrived in time to make a presentation to you, citizen . . . to the citizen president and to the tribunal . . .’

Fouquier-Tinville exchanged looks with the president, who nodded his assent.

‘Citizen Tyrone, as an esteemed friend of the Revolution and as one known so well to your brothers here among the tribunal, this court will hear your submission,’ said the prosecutor.

Allenham stood for a moment, his white stock tied high around his neck in the sans-culotte fashion, his ungloved hands resting upon the balustrade. He looked nothing like the image of the man I had kept locked safe within my breast. This new persona, Henry Tyrone, with his untied hair and fringe upon his forehead, this printer of angry bile-soaked cant – how far from this was the Allenham I had known at Orchard Cottage, with the gentle light from the fire falling on his face as he read to me in a soft, resonant voice. Was this truly him? Did my mind, now so disordered from my ordeal, not throw out hallucinations before me? I squinted, as if striving to see through the screen of my disbelief.

Indeed, at that moment, every eye was upon him; each pair of lungs had ceased to breathe.