“Their cold poached salmon—the best in the world,” Berman said, settling into his cushioned seat. Berman said that a lot of things were the best in the world; he invariably spoke in superlatives. “But have lobster à la nage. Never fails. Also recommend roast grouse. Maybe both. You’re too thin. Like Violetta in third act La Traviata. Must build you up.”

He summoned a wine steward with a glance.

“That Puligny-Montrachet we had yesterday? Could we have bottle of that, Freddy?” He turned to Janson. “It’s the greatest. You’ll see.”

“I have to say I’m surprised to find you here, ensconced at the heart of the British establishment.”

“A rogue like me, you mean—how could they ever let me in?” Berman roared with laughter, his belly quivering through bespoke broadcloth. In a lower voice, he said, “It’s a great story, actually. You see, about two years ago, I found myself invited to house party at Lord Sherwyn’s, and ended up playing billiards with very nice gentleman I met there … .” Berman had made a habit of helping certain people out of trouble with timely loans, specializing in dissolute scions of venerable baronies. These were people who, Berman imagined, might have influence in the world. It was, in his book, sound investing.

“You’ll have to tell me about it another time,” Janson said blandly but pointedly. It was all he could do not to drum his fingers.

Berman was undeterred. “I suppose he had bit too much to drink, and he was winning big, big sums off me, and so I invited him to double up … .”

Janson nodded. The scenario was predictable. A more-than-pleasantly-buzzed British gentleman, winning outrageous sums from a seemingly sloppy-drunk Russian with seemingly infinite reserves of cash. The sozzled Russian who, all evening, had shown no sign that he knew one end of a cue stick from the other. The last game, when the British gentleman’s substantial winnings were just about to become a true fortune. The gentleman thinking, perhaps, of acquiring the apartment adjoining his in Kensington; or buying that place in the country he and his family had been renting for so long. Almost unable to believe his luck. You just never knew about these things, did you? An invitation, reluctantly accepted—the scion was disreputable, but with a family name that still opened doors—had led to a laughably easy stack of money.

And then that game, that last crucial game, when suddenly the Russian didn’t seem drunk at all and grasped the cue stick with the serene mastery of a concert violinist holding his bow. And watching dreams of free money dissolve into a reality of ruin.