"And if either of you hurt Margaretha, no matter what, I'll kill you. Do you understand me?"

There was rain all through the night, and still more when Dunbar arrived the following morning. As before, Gray's first glimpse of the man was from an upstairs window, a fleeting impression, as Dunbar moved from a limousine across the wet flagstones. Then, even through tangled ivy, it would have been a clean shot, the bullet tumbling on impact and shattering the skull.

They met in the library, a room filled with broad Regency stripes and the heavy smell of leather. There were more landscapes on the wall and etchings of military campaigns: Trafalgar, Crimea, a stirrup charge on the African veldt. Dunbar was seated at a table when Gray entered, but immediately rose and extended his hand.

"It's good to see you, Nicky. It's really terribly good to see you."

Except that he kept avoiding a direct gaze and fixed his eyes on objects around him: a fountain pen with a gold nib, a sheaf of papers bound in red ribbon, a bottle of Scotch on the sideboard.

"I suppose we might as well clear the air first," he said. "So if there's anything you wish to say about what happened in Berlin, please feel free."

"No, Charles, there's nothing I want to say about Berlin."

"Very well, how about the current round? Any problems? Any particular question?"

"Yes, I suppose there is one."

"And what's that, Nicky?"

"Who the hell do you think you're fooling?"

The Scotch was poured, and they drank in silence while Gray examined a watery oil of ponies under dark skies.

"Incidentally, I believe I saw one of your drypoints in the Tate," Dunbar said.

"I doubt it was mine/'

"Ah, well, then perhaps it was the National." He put a pack of cigarettes on the table, lit one, and moved to the window. "Nicky, I don't mean to be polemic but I honestly think you're misjudging our intentions."

"That so?"

"I also rather think you're misjudging the woman."

"Her name is Margaretha. You used to be in love with her, Charles, remember? So let's stop playing games. Her name is Margaretha."

"Very well, her name is Margaretha. The fact remains, however, that I still think you're severely misjudging her. For example, do you recall those stories she used to tell? I'm referring to the ones about how her husband beat her and so forth, actually tie her to the bedpost and beat her."

"What about it?"

"Then there were stories, equally absurd, about how the temple priests used to flog her, chain her to a wall and flog her thighs with willow sticks."

"Look, just get to the point."